“I don’t know; the moon and the water always affect me. Every time I see anything beautiful it plucks at my heartstrings, and I cry.” He had smiled, for he too was infected with the beauty around him: he thought the susceptibility of this poor, distractedly emotional little woman both stupid and charming. And he had embraced her passionately, murmuring: “My little Lise, you are delightful.”
What a charming love affair—short-lived and dainty—it had been; so soon over too, cut short in the midst of its ardour by that old brute of a baron who had carried off his wife, and never shown her to anyone again.
To be sure, Lormerin had forgotten her at the end of two or three weeks. In Paris one woman soon drives out another, when one is a bachelor. No matter, he had kept a little altar for her in his heart, for she had been his only love! Very clearly now he recognised that.
He got up and said aloud: “Certainly, I’ll go and dine there this evening.” And instinctively he turned toward the mirror to inspect himself. He reflected: “She must have aged considerably, more than I have,” and felt pleased to think that he would appear to her still handsome, still vigorous, and surprise her, perhaps, soften her heart and make her regret the bygone days, so far, so far away! He returned to his other letters, which were of no importance. The whole day he kept thinking of this ghost of the past. What would she be like? How strange to meet again after twenty-five years! But would he recognise her?
He dressed himself as carefully as a woman would have done, put on a white waistcoat which suited him better with his swallowtails than a black one, sent for the hairdresser to give his hair a touch with the tongs—for his hair was still thick—and set off early to show how eager he was to meet her again.
The first thing he saw on entering the newly furnished, charming drawing room, was his own portrait, an old faded photograph dating from the days of his triumph, hanging on the wall in a dainty old brocade frame.
He sat down and waited. At last a door opened behind him; he rose hurriedly and, turning round, saw an old lady with white hair, holding both hands out to him.
He seized them kissing first one, then the other, then raised his head to gaze at his old friend.
Yes, she was an old lady, a strange old lady who wanted to cry, but nevertheless smiled.
He could not help murmuring: “Is it you, Lise?”
She replied: “Yes, it is I, truly it is I.—You would not have recognised me, would you? I have had so much sorrow—so much.—Grief has eaten into my life.—Here I am—look at me—or, rather, no—don’t look at me.—But how handsome you still are, you—and young too! If I had met you accidentally in the streets, I would have called out at once: ‘Jaquelet!’ Now sit down and let us have a chat first. Then I’ll call my daughter, my grown-up daughter. You’ll see she’s very like me—or, rather, I was very like her—no, that’s still not right: she is just like the ‘me’ of former days—you’ll see! But I wanted to be alone, just at first; I was afraid I might break down. Now it’s all right, it’s over. Do sit down, old friend.”
He sat beside her, holding her hand, but he did not know what to say; he did not know this woman; he felt that he had never seen her before. What was he doing in this house? What could he talk about? Of the past? What had the two of them in common? He forgot all that had been, in the presence of this grandmother; all the nice, sweet, tender, heart-wringing things he had felt so intensely when he was thinking of that other woman: little Lise, the dainty Flower of Ashes. What had become of her, of this former sweetheart, this well-beloved? She of the far-off dream, the blonde with grey eyes, the young girl who had so sweetly called him Jaquelet?
They remained quite still side by side, feeling awkward, unhappy and ill at ease.
As they were only exchanging commonplaces and that with difficulty, she rose and pressed the bell-push, saying: “I am going to call Renée.”
First there was the sound of a door opening, then the rustle of skirts, and then a young voice exclaiming: “Here I am, mother!”
Lormerin looked as scared as if he had seen a ghost, and stammered: “Good afternoon, Mademoiselle … ,” and, turning towards the mother, said: “Yes, it’s you!”
It was indeed she, the girl of the past, the Lise who had vanished and who had now returned! He had found her again, exactly as she had been when taken
