Rue de Balzac to Rodrigue Place is but a short distance. To postpone as long as possible the moment of this painful interview I made a long detour on my way, walking as far as the shop district of the Saint-Honore suburb. And I was thinking to myself: "Suppose I don't go to see Lirat at all. I can tell her, when
I come back, that we have quarrelled, and I can invent some sort of a story that will forever relieve me
of the necessity of this visit." I felt ashamed of this
boyish thought. . . . Then I hoped that Lirat was not
at home! With what joy could I then roll up my
card into a tube and slip it through the keyhole! Comforted by this thought I at last turned in the direction of Rodrigue Place and stopped in front of the door
of the studio and this door seemed to fill me with
fear. Still I rapped at it and presently a voice, Lirat's
voice, called:
"Come in!"
My heart beat furiously, a bar of fire stopped my throat I wanted to flee. . . .
"Come in!" the voice repeated.
I turned the door knob.
"Ah! Is that you, Mintie," Lirat exclaimed. "Come on in."
Lirat was seated at his table, writing a letter.
"May I finish this?" he said to me. "Just two more minutes and I'll be through."
He resumed writing. It was a relief not to feel upon myself the chill of his look. I took advantage of the fact that his back was turned to unburden my soul to him.
"I have not seen you for such a long time, my good Lirat."
"Why, yes, my dear Mintie!"
"I have moved."
"Ah, is that so!"
