“Come, my dear, listen! Figures are figures, you know. Can there be a better investment than this Review? It is far safer than any railroad, at least. Have I not placed my own funds in it?”
Within six months D’Argenton had sacrificed thirty thousand francs, and the receipts had been nothing, while the expenses were enormous. Besides the offices of the magazine, D’Argenton had hired in the same house a large apartment, from which he had a superb view. The city, the Seine, Nôtre Dame, numberless spires and domes, were all spread before his eyes. He saw the carriages pass over the bridges, and the boats glide through the arches. “Here I can live and breathe,” he said to himself. “It was impossible for me to accomplish anything in that dull little hole of Aulnettes! How could one work in such a lethargic atmosphere?”
Charlotte was still young and gay; she managed the house and the kitchen, which was no small matter with the number of persons who daily assembled around her table. The poet, too, had recently acquired the habit of dictating instead of writing, and as Charlotte wrote a graceful English hand, he employed her as secretary. Every evening, when they were alone, he walked up and down the large room and dictated for an hour. In the silent old house, his solemn voice, and another sweeter and fresher, awakened singular echoes. “Our author is composing,” said the concierge with respect.
Let us look in upon the D’Argenton ménage. We find them installed in a charming little room, filled with the aroma of green tea and of Havana cigars. Charlotte is preparing her writing-table, arranging her pens, and straightening the ream of thick paper. D’Argenton is in excellent vein; he is in the humor to dictate all night, and twists his moustache, where glitter many silvery hairs. He waits to be inspired. Charlotte, however, as is often the case in a household, is very differently disposed: a cloud is on her face, which is pale and anxious; but notwithstanding her evident fatigue, she dips her pen in the inkstand.
“Let us see—we are at chapter first. Have you written that?”
“Chapter first,” repeated Charlotte, in a low, sad voice.
The poet looked at her with annoyance; then, with an evident determination not to question her, he continued,—
“In a valley among the Pyrenees, those Pyrenees so rich in legendary lore—”
He repeated these words several times, then turning to Charlotte, he said, “Have you written this?”
She made an effort to repeat the words, but stopped, her voice strangled with sobs. In vain did she try to restrain herself, her tears flowed in torrents.