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Updated: May 15, 2025
I had often imagined her walking there at mid-day, dressed in white muslin with wide sleeves open to the elbow, scattering grain from a silver plate to the proud pigeons that strutted about her slippered feet and fluttered to her dove-like hand. I had dreamed of seeing that woman as I rode racehorses on wild Irish plains, of being loved by her; in London I had dreamed of becoming Sevres's pupil.
Looking back through the years it seems to me that I did catch sight of a white dress behind a trellis. But that dress might have been his daughter's, even his wife's. I only know that I did not discover M. Sevres's mistress that day nor any other day. I never saw him again.
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