On the last day of the year, towards the dinner-hour, a young and
attractive woman, whose costume proclaimed her a widow, entered the
Café of the Broken Heart. That modest restaurant is situated near the
Cemetery of Mont-martre. The lady, quoting from an announcement over
the window, requested the proprietor to conduct her to the "Apartment
reserved for Those Desirous of Weeping Alone."
The proprietor's shoulders became apologetic. "A thousand regrets,
madame," he murmured; "the Weeping Alone apartment is at present
occupied."
This visibly annoyed the customer.
"It is the second anniversary of my bereavement," she complained, "and
already I have wept here twice. The woe of an habituée should find a
welcome!"
Her reproof, still more her air of being well-to-do, had an effect on
Brochat. He looked at his wife, and his wife said hesitatingly:
"Perhaps the young man would consent to oblige madame if you asked him
nicely. After all, he engaged the room for seven o'clock, and it is not
yet half-past six."
"That is true," said Brochat. "Alors, I shall see what can be arranged!
I beg that madame will put herself to the trouble of sitting down while
I make the biggest endeavours."
But he returned after a few minutes to declare that the young man's
sorrow was so profound that no reply could be extracted from him.
The lady showed signs of temper. "Has this person the monopoly of
sorrowing on your premises?" she demanded. "Whom does he lament? Surely
the loss of a husband should give me prior claim?"
"I cannot rightly say whom the gentleman laments," stammered Brochat;
"the circumstances are, in fact, somewhat unusual. I would mention,
however, that the apartment is a spacious one, as madame doubtless
recalls, and no further mourners are expected for half an hour. If in
the meantime madame would be so amiable as to weep in the young man's
presence, I can assure her that she would find him too stricken to
stare."
The widow considered. "Well," she said, after the pause, "if you can
guarantee his abstraction, so be it! It is a matter of conscience with
me to behave in precisely the same way each year, and, rather than miss
my meditations there altogether, I am willing to make the best of him."
Brochat, having taken her order for refreshments--for which he always
charged slightly higher prices on the first floor--preceded her up the
stairs. The single gas-flame that had been kindled in the room was very
low, and the lady received but a momentary impression of a man's figure
bowed over a white table. She chose a chair at once with her back
towards him, and resting her brow on her forefinger, disposed herself
for desolation.
It may have been that the stranger's proximity told on her nerves, or
it may have been that Time had done something to heal the wound.
Whatever the cause, the frame of mind that she invited was slow in
arriving, and when the bouillon and biscottes appeared she was not
averse from trifling with them. Meanwhile, for any sound that he had
made, the young man might have been as defunct as Henri IV; but as she
took her second sip, a groan of such violence escaped him that she
nearly upset her cup.
His abandonment of despair seemed to reflect upon her own
insensibility; and, partly to raise herself in his esteem, the lady a
moment later uttered a long-drawn, wistful sigh. No sooner had she done
so, however, than she deeply regretted the indiscretion, for it
stimulated the young man to a howl positively harrowing.
An impatient movement of her graceful shoulders protested against these
demonstrations, but as she had her back to him, she could not tell
whether he observed her. Stealing a glance, she discovered that his
face was buried in his hands, and that the white table seemed to be
laid for ten covers. Scrutiny revealed ten bottles of wine around it,
the neck of each bottle embellished with a large crape bow. Curiosity
now held the lady wide-eyed, and, as luck would have it, the young man,
at this moment, raised his head.
"I trust that my agony does not disturb you, madame?" he inquired,
meeting her gaze with some embarrassment.
"I must confess, monsieur," said she, "that you have been carrying it
rather far."
He accepted the rebuke humbly. "If you divined the intensity of my
sufferings, you would be lenient," he murmured. "Nevertheless, it was
dishonest of me to moan so bitterly before seven o'clock, when my claim
to the room legally begins. I entreat your pardon."
"It is accorded freely," said the lady, mollified by his penitence.
"She would be a poor mourner who quarrelled with the affliction of
another."
Again she indulged in a plaintive sigh, and this time the young man's
response was tactfully harmonious.
"Life is a vale of tears, madame," he remarked, with more solicitude
than originality.
"You may indeed say so, monsieur," she assented. "To have lost one who
was beloved--"
"It must be a heavy blow; I can imagine it!"
He had made a curious answer. She stared at him, perplexed.
"You can 'imagine' it?"
"Very well."
"But you yourself have experienced such a loss, monsieur?" faltered the
widow nervously. Had trouble unhinged his brain?
"No," said the young man; "to speak by the clock, my own loss has not
yet occurred."
A brief silence fell, during which she cast uneasy glances towards the
door.
He added, as if anxious that she should do him justice: "But I would
not have you consider my lamentations premature."
"How true it is," breathed the lady, "that in this world no human soul
can wholly comprehend another!"
"Mine is a very painful history," he warned her, taking the hint; "yet
if it will serve to divert your mind from your own misfortune, I shall
be honoured to confide it to you. Stay, the tenth invitation, which an
accident prevented my dispatching, would explain the circumstances
tersely: but I much fear that the room is too dark for you to decipher
all the subtleties. Have I your permission to turn up the gas?"
"Do so, by all means, monsieur," said the lady graciously. And the
light displayed to her, first, as personable a young man as she could
have desired to see; second, an imposing card, which was inscribed as
follows: