And it was so. She had been found dead on her balcony
dressed in the gown that had just come home from the dressmaker.
I hoped that Octave would not try to pass the matter off with some
ribald jest, and I was surprised at his gravity. "Even Octave," I
said, "refrains, _on ne blague pas la mort_."
"But what was she doing on the balcony?" he asked. "What I don't
understand is the balcony."
We all stood looking at her picture, trying to read the face.
"I suppose she went out to look at the fireworks; they begin about
eleven."
It was one of the women who had spoken, and her remark seemed to
explain the picture.
CHAPTER V
LA BUTTE
To-morrow I shall drive to breakfast, seeing Paris continuously
unfolding, prospect after prospect, green swards, white buildings,
villas engarlanded; to-day I drive to breakfast through the white
torridities of Rue Blanche. The back of the coachman grows drowsier,
and would have rounded off into sleep long ago had it not been for the
great paving stones that swing the vehicle from side to side, and we
have to climb the Rue Lepic, and the poor little fainting animal will
never be able to draw me to the Butte. So I dismiss my carriage, half
out of pity, half out of a wish to study the Rue Lepic, so typical is
it of the upper lower classes.
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