The carriage stopped before a handsome apartment-house in the Avenue de
Wagram. The unknown got out, gave the driver his fare, and rang the
concierge's bell. The sleepy guardian opened the door, touched his
gold-braided cap in recognition, and led the way to the small electric
lift. The young woman entered and familiarly pushed the button. The
apartment in which she lived was on the second floor; and there was luxury
everywhere, but luxury subdued and charmed by taste. There were fine old
Persian rugs on the floors, exquisite oils and water-colors on the walls;
and rare Japanese silk tapestries hung between the doors. In one corner of
the living-room was a bronze jar filled with artificial cherry blossoms;
in another corner near the door, hung a flat bell-shaped piece of brass--a
Burmese gong. There were many photographs ranged along the mantel-top;
celebrities, musical, artistic and literary, each accompanied by a liberal
expanse of autographic ink.
She threw aside her hat and wraps with that manner of inconsequence which
distinguishes the artistic temperament from the thrifty one, and passed on
into the cozy dining-room. The maid had arranged some sandwiches and a
bottle of light wine. She ate and drank, while intermittent smiles played
across her merry face. Having satisfied her hunger, she opened her purse
and extracted the bank-note. She smoothed it out and laughed aloud.
"Oh, if only he had taken me for a ride in the taxicab!" She bubbled again
with merriment.
Suddenly she sprang up, as if inspired, and dashed into another room, a
study. She came back with pen and ink, and with a celerity that came of
long practise, drew five straight lines across the faint violet face of
the bank-note. Within these lines she made little dots at the top and
bottom of stubby perpendicular strokes, and strange interlineal
hieroglyphics, and sweeping curves, all of which would have puzzled an
Egyptologist if he were unused to the ways of musicians. Carefully she
dried the composition, and then put the note away. Some day she would
confound him by returning it.
A little later her fingers were moving softly over the piano keys;
melodies in minor, sad and haunting and elusive, melodies that had never
been put on paper and would always be her own: in them she might leap from
comedy to tragedy, from laughter to tears, and only she would know. The
midnight adventure was forgotten, and the hero of it, too. With her eyes
closed and her lithe body swaying gently, she let the old weary pain in
her heart take hold again.