There were days when every owner, black-trousered and in his shirt-
sleeves, seemed to be burning the contents of his house in a bonfire in
the gutter. Poor men burned things that seemed useful to the casual eye
--mattresses, bolsters, all soiled, soiled again and polluted by four
years of soldiery.
Idling over the fire in the evening, Fanny's eye was caught by a stain
upon her armchair. It was sticky; it might well be champagne--the
champagne which stuck even now to the bottoms of the glasses downstairs.
"I wonder if they will burn the chair--when _they_ come back." Some one
must come back, some day, even if Philippe's mother never came. She
seemed to see the figure of the Turkish officer seated in her chair,
just as the _concierge_ had described him, stout, fezzed, resting his
legs before her fire--or of the German, stretched back in the chair in
the evening reading the copy of the _Westfaelisches Volksblatt_ she had
found stuffed down in the corner of the seat.
How, how did that splash of wax come to be so high up on the face of the
mirror? Had someone, some predecessor, thrown a candle in a temper? It
puzzled her in the morning as she lay in bed.
On the polished wooden foot of the bed was burnt the outline of a face
with a funny nose. A child's drawing. That was Philippe's. The nurse had
cried at him in a rage, perhaps, and snatched the hot poker with which
he drew--and that had made the long rushing burn that flew angrily
across the wood from the base of the face's chin.
Pages:
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240