"Dubious hole. Yet it looks as though a big town were near----" And down
the next slope she ran into Charleville. The town had been long abed,
the street lamps were out, the cobbles wet and shining.
On the main boulevard one dark figure hurried along.
"Which is the 'Silver Lion'?" she called, her voice echoing in the empty
street.
Soon, between rugs on a bed in the "Silver Lion," between a single sheet
doubled in two, she slept--propping the lockless door with her suitcase.
The Renault slept or watched below in the courtyard, the moon sank, the
small hours passed, the day broke, the first day in Charleville.
PART IV
SPRING IN CHARLEVILLE
CHAPTER XVII
THE STUFFED OWL
A stuffed bird stood upon a windless branch and through a window of blue
and orange squares of glass a broken moon stared in.
A bedroom, formed from a sitting-room, a basin to wash in upon a red
plush table--no glass, no jug, no lock upon the door. Instead, gilt
mirrors, three bell ropes and a barometer. A bed with a mattress upon it
and nothing more.
This was her kingdom.
Beyond, a town without lights, without a station, without a milkshop,
without a meat shop, without sheets, without blankets, crockery, cooking
pans, or locks upon the doors. A population half-fed and poor. A sky
black as ink and liquid as a river.
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