,andalwaysdobusinesslikewomenmenmechanicallyputadateandaddresstotheircommunications.Andthesefive-francpieces?”—(Ihauledthemforthfrommypurse)—“ifshehadofferedmethemherselfinsteadoftyingthemupwithathreadofgreensilkinakindofLilliputianpacket,Icouldhavethrustthembackintoherlittlehand,andshutupthesmall,taperfingersoverthem—so—andcompelledhershame,herpride,hershyness,alltoyieldtoalittlebitofdeterminedWill—nowwhereisshe?HowcanIgetather?”
OpeningmychamberdoorIwalkeddownintothekitchen.
“Whobroughtthepacket?”Iaskedoftheservantwhohaddeliveredittome.
“Unpetitcommissionaire,monsieur.”
“Didhesayanything?”
“Rien.”
AndIwendedmywayuptheback-stairs,wondrouslythewiserformyinquiries.
“Nomatter,”saidItomyself,asIagainclosedthedoor.“Nomatter—I’llseekherthroughBrussels.”
AndIdid.IsoughtherdaybydaywheneverIhadamoment’sleisure,forfourweeksIsoughtheronSundaysalldaylongIsoughtherontheBoulevards,intheAlleeVerte,intheParkIsoughtherinSte.GuduleandSt.JacquesIsoughtherinthetwoProtestantchapelsIattendedtheselatterattheGerman,French,andEnglishservices,notdoubtingthatIshouldmeetheratoneofthem.Allmyresearcheswereabsolutelyfruitlessmysecurityonthelastpointwasprovedbytheeventtobeequallygroundlesswithmyothercalculations.Istoodatthedoorofeachchapelaftertheservice,andwaitedtilleveryindividualhadcomeout,scrutinizingeverygowndrapingaslenderform,peeringundereverybonnetcoveringayounghead.InvainIsawgirlishfigurespassme,drawingtheirblackscarfsovertheirslopingshoulders,butnoneofthemhadtheexactturnandairofMdlle.Henri’sIsawpaleandthoughtfulfaces“encadrees”inbandsofbrownhair,butIneverfoundherforehead,hereyes,hereyebrows.AllthefeaturesofallthefacesImetseemedfritteredaway,becausemyeyefailedtorecognizethepeculiaritiesitwasbentuponanamplespaceofbrowandalarge,dark,andseriouseye,withafinebutdecidedlineofeyebrowtracedabove.
“ShehasprobablyleftBrussels—perhapsisgonetoEngland,asshesaidshewould,”mutteredIinwardly,asontheafternoonofthefourthSunday,Iturnedfromthedoorofthechapel-royalwhichthedoor-keeperhadjustclosedandlocked,andfollowedinthewakeofthelastofthecongregation,nowdispersedanddispersingoverthesquare.IhadsoonoutwalkedthecouplesofEnglishgentlemenandladies.(Graciousgoodness!whydon’ttheydressbetter?Myeyeisyetfilledwithvisionsofthehigh-flounced,slovenly,andtumbleddressesincostlysilkandsatin,ofthelargeunbecomingcollarsinexpensivelaceoftheill-cutcoatsandstrangelyfashionedpantaloonswhicheverySunday,attheEnglishservice,filledthechoirsofthechapel-royal,andafterit,issuingforthintothesquare,cameintodisadvantageouscontrastwithfreshlyandtrimlyattiredforeignfigures,hasteningtoattendsalutatthechurchofCoburg.)IhadpassedthesepairsofBritons,andthegroupsofprettyBritishchildren,andtheBritishfootmenandwaiting-maidsIhadcrossedthePlaceRoyale,andgotintotheRueRoyale,thenceIhaddivergedintotheRuedeLouvain—anoldandquietstreet.Irememberthat,feelingalittlehungry,andnotdesiringtogobackandtakemyshareofthe“gouter,”nowontherefectory-tableatPelet’s—towit,pistoletsandwater—Isteppedintoabaker’sandrefreshedmyselfonaCOUC(?)—itisaFlemishword,Idon’tknowhowtospellit—ACORINTHE-ANGLICE,acurrantbun—andacupofcoffeeandthenIstrolledontowardsthePortedeLouvain.VerysoonIwasoutofthecity,andslowlymountingthehill,whichascendsfromthegate,Itookmytimefortheafternoon,thoughcloudy,wasverysultry,andnotabreezestirredtorefreshtheatmosphere.NoinhabitantofBrusselsneedwanderfartosearchforsolitudelethimbutmovehalfaleaguefromhisowncityandhewillfindherbroodingstillandblankoverthewidefields,sodrearthoughsofertile,spreadouttreelessandtracklessround