Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/58

tear herself away from the rich furnishings and the deep silence to which she had become so accustomed. And she like the season of the year. Suppose it was cold today, to. knew, too, that with the Levitans the times always changed, morrow the sun would shine again-and her wages would sprout again on the kitchen table, like the buds on the bare branches.

Her natural common sense wasn't fooling her. And the work was easy enough. It was as though the family feared to do anything that might disturb the spotless neatness of the house. Visitors would stand motionless at the threshold of the salon, awestruck, as though in a place of prayer. They would lower their voices in reverence, as soundless organ-music filled the hallowed air.

And maybe it wasn't solely due to the spotless serenity of the place. There was some sort of a vague legend to the effect that deep, hidden influences cast a strange spell on the tenants of the house on Number 13 Avenue Republique. Madame Dabbie, the concierge, could tell stories about a weird and mysterious well that had been on the very spot where the house now stood.

Once, a long time ago, she would say, when the Kings of France would graciously condescend to embrace shepherd girls, and father their bastards, when all of the suburbs of present-day Paris were nothing but thick forests, a King, drunk with amorousness, had drowned his shepherd girl in the well. The moment he has committed the deed, a black fear had swept over him. He had given orders that the well be sealed up. But afterwards the dread had given way to longing, a longing that drew him out of his palace. He abandoned his throne and his kingly duties, and for days and days he roamed about the sealed well. When his ministers saw that no good would come of these goings-on, they