That turn in the Rue de Grenelle seemed like the turn in the tide of
his fortunes. The morning mail brought an order for five hundred
francs, with a letter from the editor of the _Epoch Magazine_, saying
that he liked the article on "The Cradle of the Revolution" very much,
and that he wished the author would do three papers for him on the
"Old Prisons of Paris," A week later came a letter from the editor of
_The World's Wonders_, saying that if the author of the excellent
article on Vesuvius would procure photographic illustrations of it at
their expense, they would be glad to pay a hundred dollars for it, and
asking if he felt like doing two or three articles on "The Little
Chateaux of France" during the summer.
Richard felt, not so much that he was "himself again," but that he was
a new man. The touch of praise for his work refreshed him more than
wine. His friends, the _Beaux Arts_ men and the newspaper
correspondent, noticed the change in him, and accused him of being in
love.
"Not much," he laughed, "but I am at work--two articles accepted and
commissions for five more."
They joyfully gave him all the hints and helps they could, and told
him where to find the books that he needed. He settled down to his
reading bravely and made copious notes for his articles. On Sundays he
went with his three friends to spend the day at some resort in the
suburbs. He played the violin only on these country excursions and at
night in his room when his eyes were tired. The rest of the time he
toiled terribly. His boyish dream that the world lay at his feet was
ended, but instead he felt that he had the power to do something
fairly good, if he worked hard enough. And then, perhaps some day he
might have the good luck to meet that girl whose music he had heard
the evening when the tide turned.
He wondered what she looked like. He had passed the house often,
hoping that he might see her or hear her play again. But nothing of
that kind happened. The windows on the second floor were always
closed. A discreet inquiry at the glass door of the _concierge_ drew
out only the information that Madame Farr, the American lady, had gone
away with her two nieces for their vacation. The name conveyed nothing
to him. It would have been absurd to try to follow such a cobweb
clue, and give up his work to chase after an unknown American lady
and her invisible nieces.
Yet more and more the remembrance of that strain of music lingered
with him, strangely penetrating and significant. He played it often on
the violin. It came to be the symbol of that summer, not as it had
ended in disappointment and deception, but as it had flowed for so
many perfect weeks in pure joy and gaiety of heart. He thought of the
unseen player very kindly. He tried unconsciously to make a picture of
her in his mind--the colour of her hair, her eyes, the shape of her
face. He saw her running through the woods, or sitting between the
knees of the old hemlock beside the river. And always her hair was
blond and soft and loosely curling, her eyes of a brown so bright and
clear that it seemed to glow with hidden gold, and her face a full
oval, tinted like the petal of a great magnolia blossom.
"I am a poor fool," he would say to himself after these reveries; "why
should she have been in the least like Carola? More probably she had
freckles and red hair--but she was a girl who understood."
When August came, Richard's friends went off for a holiday, but he
stuck to his work. The heat of Paris was faint and smothering. On the
first Sunday he went out to St. Germain, loveliest of all the Parisian
suburbs, and wandered all day in the green and mossy forest. He was
lonely and depressed. Not even the cool verdure of the woods, nor the
splendour of the view from the terrace looking out over the curves of
the Seine, and the green rolling hills, and the lines of light that
led to the city beginning to glow with a pale yellow radiance in the
dusk, could console him. The merry, companionable stir of life around
him made him feel more solitary. He turned away from the gay verandah
of the _Pavillion Henry IV_, which was full of dining-parties, and
went back into the town to seek the quieter garden of the _Pavillion
Louis XIV_. There was a big linden-tree there and a certain table at
one side of it where he had dined before. He would go there now for
his solitary repast.
But the garden also was well-patronized that night. The white-aproned
waiters were running to and fro; the stout landlady in black silk and
a lace cap was moving among her guests with beaming face; a soft
babble of talk and laughter rose from every walk and corner. When
Richard came to his chosen table he found it occupied by three ladies.
Disappointed, he was turning to look for another place, when the voice
of Carola Brune called him.
When a thing like that happens, a man does not know exactly where he
is, or how he feels. The largeness and the smallness of the world
amaze him; the mystery of life bewilders him; he is confused in the
presence of the unknown quantity. How he behaves, what he says or
does, depends entirely upon instincts beyond his control.
Richard would have been puzzled to give an account of his introduction
to Mrs. Farr, and of his recognition of the little sister, now grown
to young womanhood. The conversation at the table where he dined with
the family party was very vague in his mind. He knew that he was
telling them about his adventures, as if they were scenes in a comedy,
and that he said a little about the turn of good luck that had come
to him just in time. He knew that Carola was talking of her
music-lessons, and of her dear master and of his sudden promise that
she should have a concert in the early winter. It was all very jolly
and friendly, but it did not seem quite real to him until he asked her
a question.
"Where did you live in Paris last May?"
"In the Rue de Grenelle," she answered; "of course you know that old
street."
He nodded and fell into silence, letting his cigarette go out, as he
sipped his coffee.
"Well," he said, "this has been delightful--it was great luck to meet
you. But I suppose I should be going. The best of friends must part."
"But no," said Carola, flushing faintly, "what reason is there for
that stupid proverb now? My aunt and sister always take a little walk
on the terrace after dinner to see the lights. But you must let me
show you what pretty rooms we have found here for our vacation. I have
to be near the master and to keep up my practising, you know. I have a
heavenly piano. Don't you want to hear whether I have improved in my
playing?"
"I do," he answered, "indeed that is just what I want."
When they came into the little sitting-room above the garden, the
windows were wide and the room was cool and dim and fragrant. Carola
moved about in the shadow, lighting the candles on the mantle-piece
and the tall lamp beside the piano.
"Now," she said, "let us talk a little."