However, it lasted only for a second.  When she spoke, it was in a higher key: 

“Don’t you think the breeze is very fresh this evening?”

A long-drawn sigh came from the back part of the carriage.  M. Charnot was waking up.

He wished to prove that he had only been meditating.

“Yes, my dear, it’s a charming evening,” he replied; “these Italian nights certainly keep up their reputation.”

Ten minutes later the carriage drew up, and M. Charnot shook hands with me before the door of his hotel.

“Many thanks, my dear young sir, for this delightful drive home!  I hope we shall meet again.  We are off to Florence to-morrow; is there anything I can do for you there?”

“No, thank you.”

Mademoiselle Charnot gave me a slight bow.  I watched her mount the first few steps of the staircase, with one hand shading her eyes from the glare of the gaslights, and the other holding up her wraps, which had come unfolded and were falling around her.

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THE INK STAIN BY RENE BAZIN

(Tache d’Encre)

By Rene Bazin

BOOK 3.

CHAPTER XV

BACK TO PARIS

Milan, June 27th.  Before daybreak.

He asked me whether there was anything he could do for me at Florence.  There is something, but he would refuse to do it; for I wish him to inform his charming daughter that my thoughts are all of her; that I have spent the night recalling yesterday’s trip—­now the roads of Desio and the galleries of the villa, now the drive back to Milan.  M. Charnot only figured in my dreams as sleeping.  I seemed to have found my tongue, and to be pouring forth a string of well-turned speeches which I never should have ready at real need.  If I could only see her again now that all my plans are weighed and thought out and combined!  Really, it is hard that one can not live one’s life over twice—­at least certain passages in it-this episode, for instance . . . .