And why, if he was not afraid, should the wisdom of staying indoors
after sundown have suddenly occurred to him as eminently desirable? Why, indeed? And, when John Silence gently pressed him for an explanation of these
things, he admitted apologetically that he had none to give. “It was simply that I feared something might happen to me unless I kept
a sharp look-out. I felt afraid. It was instinctive,” was all he could
say. “I got the impression that the whole town was after me—wanted me
for something; and that if it got me I should lose myself, or at least
the Self I knew, in some unfamiliar state of consciousness. But I am
not a psychologist, you know,” he added meekly, “and I cannot define it
better than that.”

It was while lounging in the courtyard half an hour before the evening
meal that Vezin made this discovery, and he at once went upstairs to
his quiet room at the end of the winding passage to think it over
alone. In the yard it was empty enough, true, but there was always the
possibility that the big woman whom he dreaded would come out of some
door, with her pretence of knitting, to sit and watch him. This had
happened several times, and he could not endure the sight of her. He
still remembered his original fancy, bizarre though it was, that she
would spring upon him the moment his back was turned and land with one
single crushing leap upon his neck. Of course it was nonsense, but then
it haunted him, and once an idea begins to do that it ceases to be
nonsense. It has clothed itself in reality. He went upstairs accordingly. It was dusk, and the oil lamps had not
yet been lit in the passages. He stumbled over the uneven surface of
the ancient flooring, passing the dim outlines of doors along the
corridor—doors that he had never once seen opened—rooms that seemed
never occupied. He moved, as his habit now was, stealthily and on
tiptoe. Half-way down the last passage to his own chamber there was a sharp
turn, and it was just here, while groping round the walls with
outstretched hands, that his fingers touched something that was not
wall—something that moved. It was soft and warm in texture,
indescribably fragrant, and about the height of his shoulder; and he
immediately thought of a furry, sweet-smelling kitten. The next minute
he knew it was something quite different. Instead of investigating, however,—his nerves must have been too
overwrought for that, he said,—he shrank back as closely as possible
against the wall on the other side. The thing, whatever it was, slipped
past him with a sound of rustling and, retreating with light footsteps
down the passage behind him, was gone. A breath of warm, scented air
was wafted to his nostrils. Vezin caught his breath for an instant and paused, stockstill, half
leaning against the wall—and then almost ran down the remaining
distance and entered his room with a rush, locking the door hurriedly
behind him. Yet it was not fear that made him run: it was excitement,
pleasurable excitement. His nerves were tingling, and a delicious glow
made itself felt all over his body. In a flash it came to him that this
was just what he had felt twenty-five years ago as a boy when he was in
love for the first time. Warm currents of life ran all over him and
mounted to his brain in a whirl of soft delight. His mood was suddenly
become tender, melting, loving. The room was quite dark, and he collapsed upon the sofa by the window,
wondering what had happened to him and what it all meant. But the only
thing he understood clearly in that instant was that something in him
had swiftly, magically changed: he no longer wished to leave, or to
argue with himself about leaving. The encounter in the passage-way had
changed all that. The strange perfume of it still hung about him,
bemusing his heart and mind. For he knew that it was a girl who had
passed him, a girl’s face that his fingers had brushed in the darkness,
and he felt in some extraordinary way as though he had been actually
kissed by her, kissed full upon the lips. Trembling, he sat upon the sofa by the window and struggled to collect
his thoughts. He was utterly unable to understand how the mere passing
of a girl in the darkness of a narrow passage-way could communicate so
electric a thrill to his whole being that he still shook with the
sweetness of it. Yet, there it was! And he found it as useless to deny
as to attempt analysis. Some ancient fire had entered his veins, and
now ran coursing through his blood; and that he was forty-five instead
of twenty did not matter one little jot. Out of all the inner turmoil
and confusion emerged the one salient fact that the mere atmosphere,
the merest casual touch, of this girl, unseen, unknown in the darkness,
had been sufficient to stir dormant fires in the centre of his heart,
and rouse his whole being from a state of feeble sluggishness to one of
tearing and tumultuous excitement. After a time, however, the number of Vezin’s years began to assert
their cumulative power; he grew calmer, and when a knock came at length
upon his door and he heard the waiter’s voice suggesting that dinner
was nearly over, he pulled himself together and slowly made his way
downstairs into the dining-room. Every one looked up as he entered, for he was very late, but he took
his customary seat in the far corner and began to eat. The trepidation
was still in his nerves, but the fact that he had passed through the
courtyard and hall without catching sight of a petticoat served to calm
him a little. He ate so fast that he had almost caught up with the
current stage of the table d’hôte, when a slight commotion in the room
drew his attention. His chair was so placed that the door and the greater portion of the
long _salle à manger_ were behind him, yet it was not necessary to turn
round to know that the same person he had passed in the dark passage
had now come into the room. He felt the presence long before he heard
or saw any one. Then he became aware that the old men, the only other
guests, were rising one by one in their places, and exchanging
greetings with some one who passed among them from table to table. And
when at length he turned with his heart beating furiously to ascertain
for himself, he saw the form of a young girl, lithe and slim, moving
down the centre of the room and making straight for his own table in
the corner. She moved wonderfully, with sinuous grace, like a young
panther, and her approach filled him with such delicious bewilderment
that he was utterly unable to tell at first what her face was like, or
discover what it was about the whole presentment of the creature that
filled him anew with trepidation and delight. “Ah, Ma’mselle est de retour!” he heard the old waiter murmur at his
side, and he was just able to take in that she was the daughter of the
proprietress, when she was upon him, and he heard her voice. She was
addressing him.