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66 THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL
the drooping ivy shoots, gave the whole the effect of a
flower show. Round the basket Avhich held the roses
stood an array of wine glasses, red, green and opal, which
I had bought cheaply, at a sale, for each of them had a
flaw. I’he same thing applied to the dinner service :
plates, salt-cellars and sugar-bowl of Chinese, Japanese
and Swedish porcelain.
I had but a dozen cold dishes to offer to my friends,
most of them chosen more with an eye to their decorative
value than because they Avere good to eat, for the meal
was to consist principally of oysters. My landlady had
good-naturedly lent me the indispensable articles for the
banquet, an unprecedented event in my attic. ... At
last everything was satisfactorily arranged, and I could
not help admiring the setting : these mingled touches
betrayed on a small scale the inspii-ation of a poet, the
research of a scientist, the good taste of an artist. The
fondness for dainty food, the love of flowers, suggested
the love of Avomen. If the table had not been laid for
three, one might have guessed at an intimate feast for
two, the first delights of a love-adventure, instead of a
feast of reconciliation which it actually Avas. My room
had not seen a female visitor since that horrible woman
whose boots had left ineradicable traces on the AvoodAvork
of my sofa. The looking-glass on the chest of drawers
had reflected no female figure since then. And now a
Avoman of blameless life, a mother, a lady of education
and refinement, was coming to consecrate this place Avhich
had seen so much Avork, misery and pain. And, I thought
in a transport of poetic inspiration, it is indeed a sacred
festival, since I am prepared to sacrifice my heart, my
peace, perhaps my life, to ensure the happiness of my
friends.
Everything was ready when I heard footsteps on the
fourth floor landing. I hastily lit the candles, for the
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