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Fontenette gave a faint gasp of impatience and left us at a run, tripping fairily across the rough street at the only point visible to those on the veranda. Fontenette scowled unaware as he started to follow, and the next moment a short "aha!" escaped him. For, at her gate, to my unholy joy, she stumbled just enough to make the whole performance unspeakably ridiculous, and flirted into her cottage
Now, that was just what I did not know. Whatever the thing was, I had never taken it from the envelope. But the moment she asked I knew. I knew it bore no signature. We gazed into each other's eyes for many seconds until hers tried to withdraw. Then I said and the words seemed to drop from my lips unthought "It didn't have to be signed, Mrs. Fontenette, although the handwriting is disguised."
I went to my open window and heard, through his balcony door locked, now, and its key in my pocket the Baron, snoring. Then I sprang into my clothes and sped across the street. I went first around to the outer door of the dining-room, and was briefly told the best I could have hoped, of Fontenette. I returned to the front and stepped softly into what had been Mrs. Fontenette's room.
I hearkened, and the next instant there came softly searching through doors, through walls, through my own flesh and blood, a long half-wailing sigh. Fontenette tightened on my hand, then dropped it, and opening his eyes sharply, asked, "What was that?" "What was what, old fellow?" I pretended to have been more than half asleep myself. "Did I only dream I 'eard it, thad noise?"
I seemed to be explaining to Monsieur Fontenette apologetically that this newly opened world was not at all separate from my old one, but shone everywhere in it, like our winged guests in our garden, and followed and surrounded me far beyond the Baron's company, terminology, and magnifying-glass, lightening the burdens and stress of the very counting-room and exchange.
That has been our fat neighbor's best joke ever since, though he always says after it, "The poor Baron!" and often adds "and poor Mrs. Fontenette! Little did we think," etc. But he has never even suspected their secret. The entomologist was the last of our pew-full to give heed to the pulpit.
"You can raise twice enough, Fontenette, if it's to try to bring back some new business." "Well yes, 'tis for that. Of co'se, besides " "Yes, I know: of course." "But tha'z what puzzle' me. What I'm going do with that house heah, whilse I'm yondeh! I wou'n' sell it ah no! I wou'n' sell one of those roses! An' no mo' I wou'n' rent it. Tha's a monument, that house heah, you know?" "Yes, I know."
I was amused to see, by stolen glances, Mrs. Smith study him. She did not know she frowned, nor did he; but Mrs. Fontenette knew it every time. We all had the advantage of him as to common sight. His glasses were obviously of a very high power, yet he could scarcely see anything till he clapped his face close down and hunted for it.
"Fontenette," I exclaimed, "what have you heard what have you done?" "My frien', 'tis not what I 'ave heard, neitheh what I 'ave done; 'tis what I 'ave got." "Got? Why, you've got nothing, you Creole of the Creoles. Your skin's as cool as mine." "Feel my pulse," he said. I felt it. It wasn't less than a hundred and fifty.
As in mechanical silence Fontenette obeyed the busy requests of the entomologist, I presently looked more on those two than on the winged multitude, and thought on, of the myriad true tales of love-weakness and love-wrath for which they and their two pretty mates were just now so unlucky as to stand; of the awful naturalness of such things; of the butterfly beauty and wonder nay, rather the divine possibilities of the lives such things so naturally speed to wreck; and then of Tom Moore almost too playfully singing: Ah! did we take for Heaven above But half such pains as we Take, day and night, for woman's love, What Angels we should be!
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