And he sings as
he passes the _concierge's_ lodge, pitying the poor couple
asleep--what do they know of love? Humble beasts unable to experience
the joy of rhythm. Exalted he goes upstairs; he is on rhythm bent,
words follow ideas, rhymes follow words, and he sits down at his
writing-table and drawing forth a sheet of paper he writes. A song
moves within him, a fragrant song of blond hair and perfume--the
handkerchief inspires him, and he must get the rondel perfect: a
rondel, or something like a rondel, which he will read to her
tomorrow, for she has appointed to meet him--where? No better place
for lovers than the garden of L'Eglise de la Trinite. His night passes
in shallow sleep; but his wakings are delicious, for at every awaking
he perceives a faint odour of violets. He dreams of blond hair and how
carefully he will dress himself in the morning! Would she like him
better in his yellow or his grey trousers? Or should he wear a violet
or a grey necktie? These are the questions that are important; and
what more important questions are there for a young man of twenty-five
going to meet a delicious little Dresden figure with blond hair and
forget-me-not eyes in the garden of L'Eglise de la Trinite? He knows
she will come, only he hopes not to be kept too long waiting, and at
ten o'clock he is there for sure, walking up and down watching the
nursemaids and the perambulators drawn up in the shade.
Pages:
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346