I can do for you there?"

"No, thank you."

Mademoiselle Charnot gave me a slight bow. I watched her mount the first
few steps of the staircase, with one hand shading her eyes from the glare
of the gaslights, and the other holding up her wraps, which had come
unfolded and were falling around her.

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Came not in single spies, but in battalions
Men forget sooner
Skilful actor, who apes all the emotions while feeling none
Sorrows shrink into insignificance as the horizon broadens
Surprise goes for so much in what we admire
To be your own guide doubles your pleasure
You must always first get the tobacco to burn evenly

THE INK STAIN BY RENE BAZIN

(Tache d'Encre)

By RENE BAZIN

BOOK 3.

CHAPTER XV

BACK TO PARIS

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 to
inform his charming daughter that my thoughts are all of her; that I have
spent the night recalling yesterday's trip--now the roads of Desio and
the galleries of the villa, now the drive back to Milan. M. Charnot only
figured in my dreams as sleeping. I seemed to have found my tongue, and
to be pouring forth a string of well-turned speeches which I never should
have ready at real need. If I could only see her again now that all my
plans are weighed and thought out and combined! Really, it is hard that
one 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 I
thought I could read in their depths a look of inquiry, a touch of
surprise, a grain of disquiet. But her answer? She is going to Florence
bearing with her the answer on which my life depends. They are leaving by
the early express. Shall I take it, too? Florence, Rome, Naples--why not?
Italy is free to all, and particularly to lovers. I will toss my cap 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 at Pompeii, a
lazzarone at Naples. She shall find a sonnet in the bunch of fresh
flowers offered her by a peasant at the door of her hotel. And at least I
shall bask in her smile, the sound of her voice, the g