However, the night
before-and the night after the operation, he was allowed to remain with
her,--no extra bed was put in the room--he slept on the sofa.
Often when C. was sleeping or tired, I would take my book and establish
myself in the garden. Paris might have been miles away, though only a
few yards off there was a busy, crowded boulevard, but no noise seemed
to penetrate the thick walls. Occasionally at the end of a quiet path I
would see a black figure pacing backward and forward, with eyes fixed on
a breviary. Once or twice a soeur jardiniere with a big, flat straw hat
over her coiffe and veil tending the flowers (there were not many) or
weeding the lawn, sometimes convalescents or old ladies seated in
armchairs under the trees, but there was never any sound of voices or of
life. It was very reposeful (when one felt one could get away for a
little while), but I think the absolute calm and monotony would pall
upon one, and the "Call of the World"--the struggling, living, joyous
world outside the walls--would be an irresistible temptation.
I walked about a good deal in my quarter in the morning, and made
acquaintance with many funny little old squares and shops, merceries,
flower and toy shops which had not yet been swallowed up by the enormous
establishments like the Louvre, the Bon Marche, and the big bazaars.
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