Part 11 (2/2)

He had been watching, all the previous day, for the Lady of the Rose to go out, and she did not leave her room. Now it occurred to him to watch for Chitta's exit on a forage foray and to renew his attack during her absence. This he accomplished. From a front window, he had no sooner seen the duenna swing into the rue du Val de Grace, with her head-dress bobbing and a shopping-net on her arm, than he was again knocking at the door across the landing.

He knew now, did Cartaret, that, on whatever landing of life he had lived, there was always that door opposite, the handle of which he had never dared to turn, the key to which he had never yet found. He knew, on this morning--a clear, windy morning, for March had come in like a lion--that, for the door of every heart in the world, or high or low, or cruel or tender, there is a heart opposite with a door not inaccessible.

The pale yellow sun sang of it: Marvelous Door Opposite!--it seemed to sing--how, when they pa.s.s that portal, the commonplace becomes the unusual and reality is turned into romance. Lead becomes silver then, and copper--gold. Magical Door Opposite! All the possibilities of life--aye, and what is better, all life's impossibilities--are behind you, and all life's fears and hopes before. All our young dreams, our mature ambitions, our old regrets, curl in incense from our brains and struggle to pa.s.s that keyhole. Unhappy he for whom the door never opens; more unhappy, often, he for whom it does open; but most unhappy he who never sees that it is there: the Door across the Landing.

Cartaret knocked as if he were knocking at the gate of Paradise, and, perhaps again as if he were knocking at the gate of Paradise, he got no answer. He knocked a second time and heard the rustle of a woman's skirt.

”Who is there?”--She spoke in French now, but he would have known her voice had she talked the language of Grand Street.

”Cartaret,” he answered.

She opened the door. A ray of light beat its way through a grimy window in the hall to welcome her--Cartaret was sure that no light had pa.s.sed that window for years and years--and rested on the beauty of her pure face, her calm eyes, her blue-black hair.

”Good morning,” said the Lady of the Rose.

It sounded wonderful to him. When _he_ replied ”Good morning”--and could think of nothing else to say--the phrase sounded less remarkable.

She waited a moment. She looked a little doubtful. She said:

”You perhaps wanted Chitta?”

Were her eyes laughing? Her lips were serious, but he was uncertain of her eyes.

”Certainly not,” said he.

”Oh, you wanted me?”

”Yes!” said Cartaret, and blushed at the vehemence of the monosyllable.

”Why?”

For what, indeed, had he come there? He vividly realized that he should have prepared some excuse; but, having prepared none, he could offer only the truth--or so much of it as seemed expedient.

”I wanted to see if you were all right,” he said.

”But certainly,” she smiled. ”I thank you, sir; but, yes, I am--all right.”

She said no more; Cartaret felt as if he could never speak again.

However, speak he must.

”Well, you know,” he said, ”I hadn't seen you anywhere about, and I was rather worried.”

”Chitta takes of me the best care.”

”Yes, but, you see, I didn't know and I--Oh, yes: I wanted to see whether that turpentine worked.”

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