" So far, from anticipating emotions, I had proposed dining
there another night instead, but she would not allow me to leave.
"Something you say may suggest a theme to him," she declared, "and he
can write or dictate the story in an hour, when you have gone."
So I stayed, and after dinner he lay on the sofa, bewailing the fate
that had made him an author. The salon communicated with his study, and
through the open door he had the invitation of his writing-table--the
little sheaf of paper that she had put in readiness for him, the
lighted lamp, the pile of cigarettes. I knew that she hoped the view
would stimulate him, but it was soon apparent that he had ceased to
think of a story altogether. He spoke of one of the latest murders in
Paris, one sensational enough for the Paris Press to report a murder
prominently--of a conference at the Universite des Annales, of the
artistry of Esther Lekain, of everything except his work. Then, in the
hall, the telephone bell rang, and madame Noulens rose to receive the
message. "Allo! Allo!"
She did not come back. There was a pause, and presently he murmured:
"I wonder if a stranger has been moved to telephone a plot to me?"
"What?" I said.
"It sounds mad, hein? But it once happened--on just such a night as
this, when my mind was just as blank. Really! Out of the silence a
woman told me a beautiful story. Of course, I never used it, nor do I
know if she made use of it herself; but I have never forgotten.
Pages:
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304