“Do you think you will have done today?” said she.
“Your hair is so long and so thick, madame,” replied Plaisir.
Caroline could not help smiling. The man’s flattery had no doubt revived in her mind the memory of the passionate praises lavished by her lover on the beauty of her hair, which he delighted in.
The hairdresser having done, a waiting-maid came and held counsel with her as to the dress in which Roger would like best to see her. It was the beginning of September 1816, and the weather was cold; she chose a green grenadine trimmed with chinchilla. As soon as she was dressed, Caroline flew into the drawing-room and opened a window, out of which she stepped on to the elegant balcony, that adorned the front of the house; there she stood, with her arms crossed, in a charming attitude, not to show herself to the admiration of the passersby and see them turn to gaze at her, but to be able to look out on the Boulevard at the bottom of the Rue Taitbout. This side view, really very comparable to the peephole made by actors in the drop-scene of a theatre, enabled her to catch a glimpse of numbers of elegant carriages, and a crowd of persons, swept past with the rapidity of Ombres Chinoises. Not knowing whether Roger would arrive in a carriage or on foot, the needlewoman from the Rue du Tourniquet looked by turns at the foot-passengers, and at the tilburies—light cabs introduced into Paris by the English.
Expressions of refractoriness and of love passed by turns over her youthful face when, after waiting for a quarter of an hour, neither her keen eye nor her heart had announced the arrival of him whom she knew to be due. What disdain, what indifference were shown in her beautiful features for all the other creatures who were bustling like ants below her feet. Her gray eyes, sparkling with fun, now positively flamed. Given over to her passion, she avoided admiration with as much care as the proudest devote to encouraging it when they drive about Paris, certainly feeling no care as to whether her fair countenance leaning over the balcony, or her little foot between the bars, and the picture of her bright eyes and delicious turned-up nose would be effaced or no from the minds of the passersby who admired them; she saw but one face, and had but one idea. When the spotted head of a certain bay horse happened to cross the narrow strip between the two rows of houses, Caroline gave a little shiver and stood on tiptoe in hope of recognizing the white traces and the color of the tilbury. It was he!
Roger turned the corner of the street, saw the balcony, whipped the horse, which came up at a gallop, and stopped at the bronze-green door that he knew as well as his master did. The door of the apartment was opened at once by the maid, who had heard her mistress’ exclamation of delight. Roger rushed up to the drawing-room, clasped Caroline in his arms, and embraced her with the effusive feeling natural when two beings who love each other rarely meet. He led her, or rather they went by a common impulse, their arms about each other, into the quiet and fragrant bedroom; a settee stood ready for them to sit by the fire, and for a moment they looked at each other in silence, expressing their happiness only by their clasped hands, and communicating their thoughts in a fond gaze.
“Yes, it is he!” she said at last. “Yes, it is you. Do you know, I have not seen you for three long days, an age!—But what is the matter? You are unhappy.”
“My poor Caroline—”
“There, you see! ‘poor Caroline’—”
“No, no, do not laugh, my darling; we cannot go to the Feydeau Theatre together this evening.”
Caroline put on a little pout, but it vanished immediately.
“How absurd I am! How can I think of going to the play when I see you? Is not the sight of you the only spectacle I care for?” she cried, pushing her fingers through Roger’s hair.
“I am obliged to go to the Attorney-General’s. We have a knotty case in hand. He met me in the great hall at the Palais; and as I am to plead, he asked me to dine with him. But, my dearest, you can go to the theatre with your mother, and I will join you if the meeting breaks up early.”
“To the theatre without you!” cried she in a tone of amazement; “enjoy any pleasure you do not share! O my Roger! you do not deserve a kiss,” she added, throwing her arms round his neck with an artless and impassioned impulse.
“Caroline, I must go home and dress. The Marais is some way off, and I still have some business to finish.”
“Take care what you are saying, monsieur,” said she, interrupting him. “My mother says that when a man begins to talk about his business, he is ceasing to love.”
“Caroline! Am I not here? Have I not stolen this hour from my pitiless—”
“Hush!” said she, laying a finger on his mouth. “Don’t you see that I am in jest.”
They had now come back to the drawing-room, and Roger’s eye fell on an object brought
