Yet for all her cynicism Lady Greville I
know has a bundle of old and faded letters, tied up in black ribbon in some
hidden drawer, that perhaps she never reads now, but that she cannot forget
or destroy. They are in a bold handwriting, that is, not, I think, that of
the miserable, old debauchee, her husband, from whom she has been separated
since the first year of her marriage, and their envelopes bear Indian
postmarks.
And Felix, who told me the history of those letters with a smile of pity
on his thin, ironical lips--Felix, whose principles are adapted to his
conscience and whose conscience is bounded by the law, and in whom I
believe as little as he does in me, I found out by accident not so very
long ago. It was on the day of All Souls, the melancholy festival of
souvenirs, celebrated once a year, under the November fogs, that I strayed
into the Montparnasse Cemetery, to seek inspiration for my art. And though
he did not see me, I saw Felix, the prince of railers, who believes in
nothing and cares for nothing except himself, for music is not with him a
passion but an _agrement_. Felix bareheaded, and without his usual smile,
putting fresh flowers on the grave of a little Parisian grisette, who had
been his mistress and died five years ago.
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