This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D.W.]
THE INK STAIN BY RENE BAZIN
(Tache d'Encre)
By RENE BAZIN
May 1st.
These four days have seemed as if they never would end—especially thelast. But now it wants only two minutes of noon. In two minutes, ifLampron is not late—
Rat-a-tat-tat!
"Come in."
"It is twelve o'clock, my friend; are you coming?"
It was Lampron.
For the last hour I had had my hat on my head, my stick between my legs,and had been turning over my essay with gloved hands. He laughed at me.I don't care. We walked, for the day was clear and warm. All the worldwas out and about. Who can stay indoors on May Day? As we neared theChamber of Deputies, perambulators full of babies in white capes camepouring from all the neighboring streets, and made their resplendent waytoward the Tuileries. Lampron was in a talkative mood. He was pleasedwith the hanging of his pictures, and his plan of compaign againstMademoiselle Jeanne.
"She is sure to have heard of it, Fabien, and perhaps is there already.
Who can tell?"
"Oh, cease your humbug! Yes, very possibly she is there before us. Ihave had a feeling that she would be for these last four days."
"You don't say so!"
"I have pictured her a score of times ascending the staircase on herfather's arm. We are at the foot, lost in the crowd. Her noble, clear-cut profile stands out against the Gobelin tapestries which frame it withtheir embroidered flowers; one would say some maiden of bygone days hadcome to life, and stepped down from her tapestried panel."
"Gentlemen!" said Lampron, with a sweep of his arm which took in thewhole of the Place de la Concorde, "allow me to present to you theintending successor of Counsellor Mouillard, lawyer, of Bourges. Everyinch of him a man of business!"
We were getting near. Crowds were on their way to the exhibition fromall sides, women in spring frocks, many of the men in white waistcoats,one hand in pocket, gayly flourishing their canes with the other, as muchas to say, "Look at me-well-to-do, jaunty, and out in fine weather." Theturnstiles were crowded, but at last we got through. We made but onestep across the gravel court, the realm of sculpture where antique godsin every posture formed a mythological circle round the modern busts inthe central walk. There was no loitering here, for my heart waselsewhere. We cast a look at an old wounded Gaul, an ancestor unhonoredby the crowd, and started up the staircase—no Jeanne to lead the way.We came to the first room of paintings. Sylvestre beamed like a man whofeels at home.
"Quick, Sylvestre, where is the sketch? Let's hurry to it."
But he dragged me with him around several rooms.
Have you ever experienced the intoxication of color which seizes theuninitiated at the door of a picture-gallery? So many staring huesimpinge upon the eyes, so many ideas take confused shape and struggletogether in the brain, that the eyes grow weary and the brain harassed.It hovers undecided like an insect in a meadow ful