The door flew open at the top.
'Bon soir, bonne nuit,' screamed the voice; 'wait a moment and I'll
get the lamp. You'll break your neck. Is there anything you want--a
hot-water bottle, or a box of matches, or some of my marmalade for
your breakfast? Wait, and I'll get it in a moment----' She would have
given the blouse off her back had he needed, or could have used it.
She flew back to the kitchen to search and shout. It sounded like a
quarrel; but, pretending not to hear, he made good his escape and
passed out into the street. The heavy door of the Post Office banged
behind him, cutting short a stream of excited sentences. The peace and
quiet of the night closed instantly about his steps.
By the fountain opposite the Citadelle he paused to drink from the
pipe of gushing mountain water. The open courtyard looked inviting,
but he did not go in, for, truth to tell, there was a curious
excitement in him--an urgent, keen desire to get to sleep as soon as
possible. Not that he felt sleepy--quite the reverse in fact, but that
he looked forward to his bed and to 'sleeping tightly.'
The village was already lost in slumber. No lights showed in any
houses. Yet it was barely half-past nine. Everywhere was peace and
stillness. Far across the lake he saw the twinkling villages. Behind
him dreamed the forests.
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