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I have walked tonight on the avenue where I met you one winter night. I have culled a branch of the boxwood at which you looked. In this city, where you are not, I see only you." He said at the end of his letter that he was to dine out. In the absence of Madame Fusellier, who had gone to the country, he should go to a wine- shop of the Rue Royale where he was known.
Madame Fusellier was the first to speak: "Monsieur Jacques is not at home." And, as Therese remained silent, immovable, Fusellier came near her with his broom, hiding with his left hand his pipe behind his back "Monsieur Jacques has not yet come home." "I will wait for him," said Therese. Madame Fusellier led her to the parlor, where she lighted the fire.
This idea of the agricultural or mystical van represented measure and order too well to be exactly applied to life. It seemed to him that men were grains in a coffee-mill. He had had a vivid sensation of this the day before, when he saw Madame Fusellier grinding coffee in her mill. Therese said to him: "Why are you not conceited?"
The heavy step of workmen walking in squads, the noise of wagons of milkmen and marketmen, came to her ear like sounds of good augury. She shuddered at this first awakening of the city. At nine o'clock, in the yard of the little house, she observed M. Fusellier sweeping, in the rain, while smoking his pipe. Madame Fusellier came out of her box. Both looked embarrassed.
He looked around the room, and at the furniture with familiar tenderness. He opened a drawer: "Here are mamma's eye-glasses. How she searched for these eye-glasses! Now I will show you my room. If it is not in order you must excuse Madame Fusellier, who is trained to respect my disorder." The curtains at the windows were down. He did not lift them.
She looked at the figure again, did not understand, and asked: "Is it something very bad? How can a thing shown on the portal of a church be so difficult to tell here?" Suddenly an anxiety came to her: "What will Monsieur and Madame Fusellier think of me?" Then, discovering on the wall a medallion wherein Dechartre had modelled the profile of a girl, amusing and vicious: "What is that?"
A little frightened in that vast, unknown hall, embarrassed by the look of strange things, she drew the black tulle to her chin. "Here! You can not think of it." He said they were alone. "Alone? And the man with terrible moustaches who opened the door?" He smiled: "That is Fusellier, my father's former servant. He and his wife take charge of the house. Do not be afraid. They remain in their box.
I have walked tonight on the avenue where I met you one winter night. I have culled a branch of the boxwood at which you looked. In this city, where you are not, I see only you." He said at the end of his letter that he was to dine out. In the absence of Madame Fusellier, who had gone to the country, he should go to a wine-shop of the Rue Royale where he was known.
He looked around the room, and at the furniture with familiar tenderness. He opened a drawer: "Here are mamma's eye-glasses. How she searched for these eye-glasses! Now I will show you my room. If it is not in order you must excuse Madame Fusellier, who is trained to respect my disorder." The curtains at the windows were down. He did not lift them.
The heavy step of workmen walking in squads, the noise of wagons of milkmen and marketmen, came to her ear like sounds of good augury. She shuddered at this first awakening of the city. At nine o'clock, in the yard of the little house, she observed M. Fusellier sweeping, in the rain, while smoking his pipe. Madame Fusellier came out of her box. Both looked embarrassed.
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