Милий друг
Suzanne
Totheirleft,underadomeofpalms,wasamarblebasin,ontheedgesofwhichfourlargeswansofdelftwareemittedthewaterfromtheirbeaks.
Thejournaliststoppedandsaidtohimself:"Thisisluxury;thisisthekindofhouseinwhichtolive.WhycanInothaveone?"
Hiscompaniondidnotspeak.Helookedatherandthoughtoncemore:"IfIonlyhadtakenher!"
SuddenlySuzanneseemedtoawakenfromherreverie."Come,"saidshe,draggingGeorgesthroughagroupwhichbarredtheirway,andturninghimtotheright.Beforehim,surroundedbyverdureonallsides,wasthepicture.Onehadtolookcloselyatitinordertounderstandit.Itwasagrandwork—theworkofamaster—oneofthosetriumphsofartwhichfurnishesoneforyearswithfoodforthought.
DuRoygazedatitforsometime,andthenturnedaway,tomakeroomforothers.Suzanne’stinyhandstillresteduponhisarm.Sheasked:
"Wouldyoulikeaglassofchampagne?Wewillgotothebuffet;weshallfindpapathere."
Slowlytheytraversedthecrowdedrooms.SuddenlyGeorgesheardavoicesay:"ThatisLarocheandMme.duRoy."
Heturnedandsawhiswifepassingupontheminister’sarm.Theyweretalkinginlowtonesandsmilingintoeachother’seyes.Hefanciedhesawsomepeoplewhisper,astheygazedatthem,andhefeltadesiretofalluponthosetwobeingsandsmitethemtotheearth.Hiswifewasmakingalaughing-stockofhim.
