Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (98 page)

I
sat
there
just
where
I
had
sat
for
luncheon.
Air
came
in
listlessly through
the
open
door
behind
me.
Now
and
again
Rose
or
Berthe appeared
for
a
moment.
I
had
told
them
I
would
not
order
any
dinner till
Mr.
Soames
came.
A
hurdy-gurdy
began
to
play,
abruptly
drowning
the
noise
of
a
quarrel
between
some
Frenchmen
further
up
the street.
Whenever
the
tune
was
changed
I
heard
the
quarrel
still
raging. I
had
bought
another
evening
paper
on
my
way.
I
unfolded
it.
My
eyes gazed
ever
away
from
it
to
the
clock
over
the
kitchen
door.
.
.
.

Five
minutes,
now,
to
the
hour!
I
remembered
that
clocks
in
restaurants
are
kept
five
minutes
fast.
I
concentrated
my
eyes
on
the
paper. I
vowed
I
would
not
look
away
from
it
again.
I
held
it
upright,
at
its full
width,
close
to
my
face,
so
that
I
had
no
view
of
anything
but it.
.
.
.
Rather
a
tremulous
sheet?
Only
because
of
the
draught,
I
told myself.

My
arms
gradually
became
stiff;
they
ached;
but
I
could
not
drop them—now.
I
had
a
suspicion,
I
had
a
certainty.
Well,
what
then? .
.
.
What
else
had
I
come
for?
Yet
I
held
tight
that
barrier
of
newspaper.
Only
the
sound
of
Berthe's
brisk
footstep
from
the
kitchen enabled
me,
forced
me,
to
drop
it,
and
to
utter:

"What
shall
we
have
to
eat,
Soames?"

"11
est
souffrant,
ce
pauvre
Monsieur
Soames?"
asked
Berthe.

"He's
only—tired."
I
asked
her
to
get
some
wine—Burgundy—and
whatever
food
might
be
ready.
Soames
sat
crouched
forward
against
the
table,
exactly
as
when
last
I
had
seen
him.
It
was
as
though
he
had
never
moved—he
who
had
moved
so
unimaginably
far.
Once
or
twice
in
the
afternoon
it
had
for
an
instant
occurred
to
me
that
perhaps
his
journey
was
not
to
be
fruitless—that
perhaps
we
had
all
been
wrong
in
our
estimate
of
the
works
of
Enoch
Soames.
That
we
had
been
horribly
right
was
horribly
clear
from
the
look
of
him.
But
"Don't
be
discouraged,"
I
falteringly
said.
"Perhaps
it's
only
that
you—didn't
leave
enough
time.
Two,
three
centuries
hence,
perhaps
"

"Yes,"
his
voice
came.
"I've
thought
of
that."

"And
now—now
for
the
more
immediate
future!
Where
are
you going
to
hide?
How
would
it
be
if
you
caught
the
Paris
express
from Charing
Cross?
Almost
an
hour
to
spare.
Don't
go
on
to
Paris.
Stop at
Calais.
Live
in
Calais.
He'd
never
think
of
looking
for
you
in Calais."

"It's
like
my
luck,"
he
said,
"to
spend
my
last
hours
on
earth
with an
ass."
But
I
was
not
offended.
"And
a
treacherous
ass,"
he
strangely added,
tossing
across
to
me
a
crumpled
bit
of
paper
which
he
had been
holding
in
his
hand.
I
glanced
at
the
writing
on
it—some
sort
of gibberish,
apparently.
I
laid
it
impatiently
aside.