Would he not at the last moment? No. Had it not then been
clear that the living happiness was at her lips? No. Could he let her
go, could it have been a failure? He was holding out one of the stone
hands. He was going.
She looked up and the sun was streaming in his eyes, blinding him, and
without seeing her he stared into the darkness that was her face. "I
have so enjoyed my walk," he said. "Thank you for coming."
All her face said "Oh!" in a hurt, frightened stare, but the sun only
came round the edges of her hair and cap and left the panic in a
shifting darkness. He was gone.
She went back to her street. Reaching the big, populous house she
followed the corridor that led from the stone courtyard, climbed to the
first floor and opened the door of her own room. A bitter disillusion
ran through her. The close-packed furniture seemed to say indifferently,
"There's not much room for you!" and she knew quite well as she sat down
on the bed that it was not her room at all, but had been as public to
the birds of passage as the branch of a tree to the birds of the air.
"I did so little. I did so little. It was such a little mistake!"
Self-pity flooded her.
"And why did he ask me to come to the Cathedral if such a little thing,
such a little thing...." Indignation rose.
"Things don't crumble like that, don't vanish like that!" She stared,
astonished, at the scenes she had left behind her, the shining of the
dark Cathedral, the ripple on the Moselle.
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