And gazing out of the window which looked out on the russet-coloured night, with its myriad lights, he added, “One can see the Sacré Cœur.” His hand on Arcade’s shoulder, he repeated several times, “I am glad to see you.”
Then, dragging his former companion in glory into the kitchen passage, he put down his candlestick, drew a key from his pocket, opened a cupboard, and, raising a linen covering, disclosed two large white wings.
“You see,” he said, “I have preserved them. From time to time, when I am alone, I go and look at them; it does me good.”
And he dabbed his reddened eyes. He stood awhile, overcome by silent emotion. Then, holding the candle near the long pinions which were moulting their down in places, he murmured, “They are eaten away.”
“You must put some pepper on them,” said Arcade.
“I have done so,” replied the angelic musician, sighing. “I have put pepper, camphor, and powder on them. But nothing does any good.”
