Page:The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter.djvu/351

ancholy, had followed the stormy feelings by which he had been stirred only a few days before. Forgetfulness, so slow to come—above all for the victims of love—that forgetfulness which they summon so loudly and repulse with equal loudness when they feel it approaching, that pitiless consoler had all at once, and without his being able to defend himself from it, invaded Rodolphe’s heart, and the name of the woman he so dearly loved could now be heard without awakening any echo in it. Strange fact; Rodolphe, whose memory was strong enough to recall to mind things that had occurred in the farthest days of his past and beings who had figured in or influenced his most remote existence—Rodolphe could not, whatever efforts he might make, recall with clearness after four days’ separation the features of that mistress who had nearly broken his life between her slender fingers. He could no longer recall the softness of the eyes by the light of which he had so often fallen asleep. He could no longer remember the notes of that voice whose anger and whose caressing utterances had alternately maddened him. A poet, who was a friend of his, and who had not seen him since his absence, met him one evening. Rodolphe seemed busy and preoccupied, he was walking rapidly along the street, twirling his cane.

“Hello,” said the poet, holding out his hand, “so here you are,” and he looked curiously at Rodolphe. Seeing that the latter looked somewhat downcast, he thought it right to adopt a consoling tone.

“Come, courage, my dear fellow, I know that it is hard, but then it must always have to come to this. Better now than later on; in three months you will be quite cured.”

“What are you driving at?” said Rodolphe, “I am not ill, my dear fellow.”

“Come,” said the other, “do not play the braggart. I