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Updated: May 3, 2025
Dreamers make no confidences; they shrivel up into themselves and are caught away on the four winds of heaven. Politics drive them mad; gossip fails to interest them; the sorrows they create have no remedy save the joys that they invent; they are natural only when alone, and talk well only to themselves. The only man who can put up with this moody contrariety of mine is Sylvestre Lampron.
The girl was carried off, struck down by a brief illness, soon dead; the man, hurled out of heaven, bruised, a fugitive also, is still so weak in presence of his sorrow that even after these long years he can not think of it without weeping." Lampron actually was weeping, he who was so seldom moved. Down his brown beard, tinged already with gray, a tear was trickling.
After ten days of waiting, during which I have employed Lampron and M. Flamaran to intercede for me, turn and turn about; ten days passed in hovering between mortal anguish and extravagant hopes, during which I have formed, destroyed, taken up again and abandoned more plans than I ever made in all my life before, yesterday, at five o'clock, I got a note from M. Charnot, begging me to call upon him the same evening.
"She will come, my dear sir; but I shall not be there to see her." "Are you going?" "I leave you to stalk your game; be patient, and do not forget to come and tell me the news this evening." "I promise." And Lampron vanished. The drawing was hung about midway between two doorways draped with curtains, that opened into the big galleries. I leaned against the woodwork of one of them, and waited.
I made a movement to follow him and bring him back. Madame Lampron stopped me. "I will go myself," said she, "later much later." We sat awhile in silence. When she saw me somewhat recovered from the shock of my feelings she went on: "You never have seen him like this, but I have seen it often. It is so hard! I knew her whom he loved almost as soon as he, for he never hid anything from me.
"What, Monsieur Lampron, do you know Monsieur Mouillard?" "As you apparently do, too, Madame Plumet." "Oh, yes! I know him well; he won my action, you know." "Ah, to be sure-against the cabinet-maker. Is your husband in?" "Yes, sir, in the workshop. Plumet!"
"Gentlemen!" said Lampron, with a sweep of his arm which took in the whole of the Place de la Concorde, "allow me to present to you the intending successor of Counsellor Mouillard, lawyer, of Bourges. Every inch of him a man of business!" We were getting near.
I heard from a group of students seated before a cafe the following words, which Sylvestre did not seem to notice: "Look, do you see the taller of those two there? That's Sylvestre Lampron." "Prix du Salon two years ago?" "A great gun, you know." "He looks it." "To the left," said Lampron.
"Stay where you are," said Sylvestre; "it's a customer come for the background of an engraving. I'll be with you in two minutes. Come in!" As he was speaking he drew the curtain in front of me, and through the thin stuff I could see him going toward the door, which had just opened. "Monsieur Lampron?" "I am he, Monsieur." "You don't recognize me, Monsieur?" "No, Monsieur."
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?
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