Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

himself to this one by his singular versatility and charm, his sincerity and brilliance. Once they grasped the many-sided nature of his mind — an operation which took about two hours’ hard work on the part of D . . . and L . . . , for K . . . dissimu- lated, with amusing effrontery, the real harmony of his character — they knew him for a man, and loved him. It was at the Red Dog that I first had the pleas- ure of meeting him. He was then living apart from his wife, who had returned to Cairo for the sake of its vice, and he occupied a small flat in the Avenue Matignon ; I was myself living not far away, and about ten o’clock we left the Dog, and he suggested that I should walk home with him. Near the Place St. Michel, however, he sud- denly hailed a closed cab — it was the depth of winter — and motioned me to enter. I was exceed- ingly surprised, for he was fond of walking, and hated travelling in any kind of vehicle. Near the Pont-Neuf he stopped the cab, removed his great blue cloak and coat (an elaborate tunic trimmed with ermine, for he was an eccentric in costume to the point of monomania) and stepped outside with me, bidding the cabman to wait. We stood in the shadow of a large urinoir and he anxiously con- sulted his watch. “ Dam the b . . . ! ” he exclaimed after a few minutes, “ Will she trick me after all ? Or has my note miscarried ? ” I was more and more astonished, even embar- rassed, but I dared not question him. Suddenly, however, there resounded the echo of a pitiful cry apparently proceeding from a house which stood upon the quay. A smile of pleasure chased the frown from his face. In a few moments came the sound of softly running feet upon the road, and a dishevelled woman with a face set hard like ivory dipped into the light. A movement — his strong nervous hand pressed me back — she stood upon [11]