"I am quite satisfied"--we heard the noise of the typing machine from
beyond--these modern doors allow nothing to be unknown.
"Young, is she?" Madame de Clerté asked turning her glance in that
direction.
"I don't know and don't care--she types well"--.
"_Hein?_"
She saw that I was becoming enraged.--My dinners are good and the war is
not yet over--.
"We shall all be terribly interested--yes--when we read the result--."
"Probably"--.
Then she told me of complications occurring about Coralie's husband.
"Of an insanity to attempt the three at once" she sighed--.
And now I can turn to my journal again--Good God--the last pages have
all been about Miss Sharp--ridiculous, exasperating Miss Sharp! did I
write ridiculous?--No--it is I who am ridiculous--I shall go for a
drive--!
* * * * *
God! what is the meaning of it all--!
I have been in hell----I came in from my drive very quietly, it was
early, a quarter to six, Miss Sharp goes at six--It was a horribly
chilly evening and Burton had lit a bright wood fire--and I suppose its
crackling prevented my hearing the sounds which were coming from the
next room for a minute. I sat down in my chair--.
What was that?--the _roucoulements_ of a dove?--No, a woman's voice
cooing foolish love words in French and English--and a child's treble
gurgling fondness back to her. It seemed as if my heart stopped
beating--as if every nerve in my spine quivered--a tremendous emotion of
I know not what convulsed me.--I lay and listened and suddenly I felt my
cheek wet with tears--then some shame, some anger shook me, and I
started to my feet, and hobbled to the door which was ajar--I opened it
wide--there was Miss Sharp with the _concierge's_ daughter's baby on her
lap fondling it--the creature may be six months old. Her horn spectacles
lay on the table. She looked up at me, the slightest flash of timidity
showing--but her eyes--Oh! God! the eyes of the Madonna--heavenly blue,
tender as an angel's--soft as a doe's--. I could have cried aloud with
some pain in the soul--and so that brute part of me spoke--.
"How dare you make this noise"?--I said rudely--"do you not know that I
have given orders for complete quiet"--.
She rose, holding the child with the greatest dignity--The picture she
made could be in the Sistine Chapel.
"I beg your pardon" she said in a voice which was not quite steady--"I
did not know you had returned, and Madame Bizot asked me to hold little
Augustine while she went to the next floor--it shall not occur again!"
I longed to stay and gaze at them both--I would have liked to have
touched the baby's queer little fat fingers--I would have liked--Oh--I
know not what--And all the time Miss Sharp held the child protectively,
as though something evil would come from me and harm it.--Then she
turned and carried it out of the room--and I went back into my
sitting-room and flung myself down in my chair--.
What had I done--Beast--brute--What had I done?
And will she never come back again?--and will life be emptier than
ever--?