"Sh! This is ver'
solemn. I could not sleep, and so I make my testament." She put her
finger to her lips as though her whisper were only a part of a playful
mystery and beckoned him, and he went towards her, reluctant, yet
unresisting like a man hypnotized. He had a childish longing to touch
all that colour, to take up great handfuls of it and feel its warmth
and let it drip through his fingers. The death that stared out of her
painted face, the silence and grim austerity of her surroundings made
that display of magnificence a fantastic parable. The stones were the
life that was going from her. She picked up each one in turn and
caressed it, and held it to the light, remembering who knew what
escapade, what splendid, reckless days, what tragedy. And yet there
was no regret and surely no remorse in her farewell of them.
"_Ma Vieille_--she make a list of all. They will be sold--for ze
children of Paris--ze _gamins_--as I was--for a good time." She held
out her hand: "_C'est joli, n'est ce pas_?"
He looked unwillingly. It was a black opal, and as she moved it it
seemed to come to life, and a distant resentful fire gleamed out of its
sullen depths.
"Yes. But you oughtn't to have all--all this stuff about. No one
could be held responsible----"
"What does it matter? If someone take it--someone 'ave it. It won't
worry me. 'Ere, I tell you something--a story, _hein_, to amuse you?
You remember our leetle dinner and 'ow I would not tell about ze Grand
Duke and ze black opal? Well, I tell you now.
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