There was a lake at Vincennes then, I am sure, with an island upon it
and tall saplings, through which the morning sun was shining. The eyes
of the lovers admired the scene, and they admired too the pretty
reflections, and the swans moving about the island. The accomplished
story-teller cries, "But if there is to be no scene in the restaurant,
how is the story to finish?" Why should stories finish? And would a
sensual _denouement_ be a better end than, let us say, that the
lovers are caught in a shower as they leave the restaurant? Such an
accident might have happened: nothing is more likely than a shower at
the end of April or the beginning of May, and I can imagine the lovers
of Vincennes rushing into one of the _concierge's_ lodges at the
gates of the villas.
"For a few minutes," they say; "the rain will be over soon."
But they are not long there when a servant appears carrying three
umbrellas; she gives one to Marie, one to me; she keeps one for
herself.
"But who is she? You told me you knew no one at Vincennes."
"No more I do."
"But you must know the people who live here; the servant says that
Monsieur (meaning her master) knows Monsieur (meaning you)."
"I swear to you I don't know anybody here; but let's go--it will be
rather fun.
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