His charity was not only generous; it was discreet.
The summer had come at last, and one warm June morning I was permitted
to take a short walk. The sun was shining with that joyous brightness
which imparts renewed youth to the streets of old Paris. I went along
slowly, questioning the passers-by at every crossing I came to and
asking the way to Rue Dauphine. When I reached the street I had some
difficulty in recognizing the lodginghouse where we had alighted on
our arrival in the capital. A childish terror made me hesitate. If I
appeared suddenly before Marguerite the shock might kill her. It might
be wiser to begin by revealing myself to our neighbor Mme Gabin; still
I shrank from taking a third party into confidence. I seemed unable to
arrive at a resolution, and yet in my innermost heart I felt a great
void, like that left by some sacrifice long since consummated.
The building looked quite yellow in the sunshine. I had just recognized
it by a shabby eating house on the ground floor, where we had ordered
our meals, having them sent up to us. Then I raised my eyes to the last
window of the third floor on the left-hand side, and as I looked at it
a young woman with tumbled hair, wearing a loose dressing gown, appeared
and leaned her elbows on the sill.
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