But soon the attics opened too much treasure. The boy's things were
everywhere, the father's and the son's. Her eyes took in the host of
relics till her spirit was living in the lost playgrounds of their
youth, pressing among phantoms.
"Irons ... For ironing! For my collars!"
But they were so small, too small. His again--the son's. "Yet why
shouldn't I use them," she thought, and slung the little pair upon
one finger.
Crossing to the second attic she came upon all the toys. It seemed as
though nothing had ever been packed up--dolls' houses, rocking-horses,
slates, weighing machines, marbles, picture books, little swords and
guns, and strange boxes full of broken things.
Returning to the floor below with empty hands she brooded by the embers
and shivered in her happy loneliness. Julien was no longer someone whom
she had left behind, but someone whom she expected. He would be here ...
how soon? In four days, in five, in six. There would be a letter
to-morrow at the "Silver Lion." Since she had found this house, this
perfect house in which to live alone and happy, the town outside had
changed, was expectant with her, and full of his presence. But, ah ...
inhuman... was Julien alone responsible for this happiness? Was she not
weaving already, from her blue curtains, from her soft embers, from the
branches of mimosa which she had bought in the market-place and placed
in a thin glass upon the mantelpiece, from the gracious silence of the
house, from her solitude?
CHAPTER XVIII
PHILIPPE'S HOUSE
What a struggle to get wood for that fire? Coal wouldn't burn in the
open hearth.
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