This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D.W.]
THE INK STAIN BY RENE BAZIN
(Tache d'Encre)
By RENE BAZIN
MILAN, June 27th. Before daybreak.
He asked me whether there was anything he could do for me at Florence.There is something, but he would refuse to do it; for I wish him toinform his charming daughter that my thoughts are all of her; that I havespent the night recalling yesterday's trip—now the roads of Desio andthe galleries of the villa, now the drive back to Milan. M. Charnot onlyfigured in my dreams as sleeping. I seemed to have found my tongue, andto be pouring forth a string of well-turned speeches which I never shouldhave ready at real need. If I could only see her again now that all myplans are weighed and thought out and combined! Really, it is hard thatone can not live one's life over twice—at least certain passages in it-this episode, for instance . . . .
What is her opinion of me? When her eyes fixed themselves on mine Ithought I could read in their depths a look of inquiry, a touch ofsurprise, a grain of disquiet. But her answer? She is going to Florencebearing with her the answer on which my life depends. They are leavingby the early express. Shall I take it, too? Florence, Rome, Naples—whynot? Italy is free to all, and particularly to lovers. I will toss mycap over the mill for the second time. I will get money from somewhere.If I am not allowed to show myself, I will look on from a distance,hidden in the crowd. At a pinch I will disguise myself—as a guide atPompeii, a lazzarone at Naples. She shall find a sonnet in the bunch offresh flowers offered her by a peasant at the door of her hotel. And atleast I shall bask in her smile, the sound of her voice, the glints ofgold about her temples, and the pleasure of knowing that she is near evenwhen I do not see her.
On second thoughts; no; I will not go to Florence. As I always distrustfirst impulses, which so often run reason to a standstill, I had recourseto a favorite device of mine. I asked myself: What would Lampron advise?And at once I conjured up his melancholy, noble face, and heard hisanswer: "Come back, my dear boy."
PARIS, July 2d.
When you arrive by night, and from the windows of the flying train, as itwhirls past the streets at full speed, you see Paris enveloped in redsteam, pierced by starry lines of gas-lamps crisscrossing in everydirection, the sight is weird, and almost beautiful. You might fancy itthe closing scene of some gigantic gala, where strings upon strings ofcolored lanterns brighten the night above a moving throng, passing,repassing, and raising a cloud of dust that reddens in the glow ofexpiring Bengal lights.
Moreover, the illusion is in part a reality, for the great city is intruth lighted for its nightly revel. Till one o'clock in the morning itis alight and riotous with the stir and swing of life.
But the dawn is bleak enough.
That, delicious hour which puts a spirit of joy into green field andhedgerow is awful to look upon in Paris. You leave the train half-frozen, to find the porters red-eyed from their watch. The customsofficials, in a