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"I wish I could oblige you, Monsieur Lampron; but if I made you a promise, I should not be able to keep it." "What a pity! All was so well arranged, too. The sketch was to have been hung with my two engravings. Poor Fabien! I was saving up a surprise for you. Come and look here." I went across. Sylvestre opened his portfolio. "Do you recognize it?" At once I recognized them.
And at least I shall bask in her smile, the sound of her voice, the glints of gold about her temples, and the pleasure of knowing that she is near even when I do not see her. On second thoughts; no; I will not go to Florence. As I always distrust first impulses, which so often run reason to a standstill, I had recourse to a favorite device of mine. I asked myself: What would Lampron advise?
Just as I came into the room, the man from the Record Office handed me a letter which had arrived at the hotel while I was out at lunch. It was a letter from Lampron, in a large, bulky envelope. Clearly something important must have happened. My fate, perhaps, was settled, and was in the letter, while I knew it not.
She blushed slightly. "Yes, Mademoiselle, it is at once a masterpiece and a sad reminder. The story is very simple, and I am sure my friend would not mind my telling it to you to you if to no other before these relics of the past. "When Lampron was a young man travelling in Italy he fell in love with this young girl, whose portrait he was painting.
There are some blunders that are lucky; but you can't tell which they are, and that's never any excuse for committing them." I could hardly get hold of Lampron for a moment in the crowd he so dislikes. He was more uncouth and more devoted than ever. "Well, are you happy?" he said. "Quite." "When you're less happy, come and see me." "We shall always be just as happy as we are now," said Jeanne.
She showed us to the top of the stairs, did little Madame Plumet, pleased at having won over her husband, at having shown herself so cunning, and at being employed in a conspiracy of love. In the street Lampron shook me by the hand. "Good-by, my friend," he said; "happy men don't need company.
"Cristoforo, I know this will be a great joy to you, and you will join with me in thanking Monsieur Lampron for his generosity. You, sir, will express to him all the Count's gratitude and my own, and also the sympathy we feel for him in his recent loss. Besides, we shall write to him. Is Monsieur Lampron rich?" "I had forgotten to tell you, Madame, that my friend will accept nothing but thanks."
Your happiness is your due; what matter how God chooses to grant it? Suppose it is an income for life paid to you by your relatives, your friends, the world in general, and the natural order of things? Well, draw your dividends, and don't bother about where they come from." Since Lampron said so, and he is a philosopher, I think I had better follow his advice.
Madame Lampron does not hoard; she only fills the place of those dams of cut turf which the peasants build in the channels of the Berry in spring; the water passes over them, beneath them, even through them, but still a little is left for the great droughts. I love my friend Lampron, though fully aware of his superiority.
I answered with foolish warmth: "Please yourself; I don't care." Really I was very much annoyed, and I was rather cool with Lampron when we parted on the platform. What has come to the fellow? To refuse to show me a sketch he had made before my eyes, and a sketch of Jeanne, too! April 28th, 9 A.M.
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