XI
That evening, a few minutes before nine o'clock, I descended from acab in front of No. 8 Rue d'Alouette, and was ushered into a prettyreception-room by an irreproachable servant, who disappeared directlywith my card.
In a few moments the young Countess came in, exquisite in her silverydinner-gown, eyes bright, white arms extended in a charming, impulsivewelcome. The touch of her silky fingers thrilled me; I was dumb underthe enchantment of her beauty; and I think she understood my silence,for her blue eyes became troubled and the happy parting of her lipschanged to a pensive curve.
Presently I began to tell her about my bronzed-green feather; at myfirst word she looked up brightly, almost gratefully, I fancied; andin another moment we were deep in eager discussion of the subjectwhich had first drawn us together.
What evidence I possessed to sustain our theory concerning theexistence of the ux I hastened to reveal; then, heart beatingexcitedly, I asked her about the eggs and where they were at present,and whether she believed it possible to bring them to Paris--all thesequestions in the same breath--which brought a happy light into hereyes and a delicious ripple of laughter to her lips.
"Why, of course it is possible to bring the eggs here," she cried. "AmI sure? Parbleu! The eggs are already here, monsieur!"
"Here!" I exclaimed. "In Paris?"
"In Paris? Mais oui; and in my own house--_this very house_, monsieur.Come, you shall behold them with your own eyes!"
Her eyes were brilliant with excitement; impulsively she stretched outher rosy hand. I took it; and she led me quickly back through thedrawing-room, through the dining-room, across the butler's pantry, andinto a long, dark hallway. We were almost running now--I keeping tighthold of her soft little hand, she, raising her gown a trifle, hurryingdown the hallway, silken petticoats rustling like a silk banner in thewind. A turn to the right brought us to the cellar-stairs; down wehastened, and then across the cemented floor towards a long,glass-fronted shelf, pierced with steam-pipes.
"A match," she whispered, breathlessly.
I struck a wax match and touched it to the gas-burner overhead.
Never, never can I forget what that flood of gas-light revealed. In arow stood five large, glass-mounted incubators; behind the glass doorslay, in dormant majesty, five enormous eggs. The eggs werepale-green--lighter, somewhat, than robins' eggs, but not as pale asherons' eggs. Each egg appeared to be larger than a large hogs-head,and was partly embedded in bales of cotton-wool.
Five little silver thermometers inside the glass doors indicated atemperature of 95 deg. Fahrenheit. I noticed that there was an automaticarrangement connected with the pipes which regulated the temperature.
I was too deeply moved for words. Speech seemed superfluous as westood there, hand in hand, contemplating those gigantic, pale-greeneggs.
There is something in a silent egg which moves one's deeperemotions--something solemn in its embryotic inertia, something awesomein its featureless immobility.
I know of nothing on earth which is so totally lacking in expressionas an egg. The great desert Sphinx, brooding through its veil of sand,has not that tremendous and meaningless dignity which wraps thecolorless oval effort of a single domestic hen.
I held the hand of the young Countess very tightly. Her fingers closedslightly.
Then and there, in the solemn presence of those emotionless eggs, Iplaced my arm around her supple waist and kissed her.
She said nothing. Presently she stooped to observe the thermometer.Naturally, it registered 95 deg. Fahrenheit.
"Susanne," I said, softly.
"Oh, we must go up-stairs," she whispered, breathlessly; and, pickingup her silken skirts, she fled up the cellar-stairs.
I turned out the gas, with that instinct of economy which earlywastefulness has implanted in me, and followed the Countess Suzannethrough the suite of rooms and into the small reception-hall where shehad first received me.
She was sitting on a low divan, head bent, slowly turning a sapphirering on her finger, round and round.
I looked at her romantically, and then--
"Please don't," she said.
The correct reply to this is:
"Why not?"--very tenderly spoken.
"Because," she replied, which was also the correct and regular answer.
"Suzanne," I said, slowly and passionately.
She turned the sapphire ring on her finger. Presently she tired ofthis, so I lifted her passive hand very gently and continued turningthe sapphire ring on her finger, slowly, to harmonize with the cadenceof our unspoken thoughts.
Towards midnight I went home, walking with great care through a newstreet in Paris, paved exclusively with rose-colored blocks of air.