It was on his fundamental simplicity that I
counted for a happy termination of his experiment, and the former of
these alternatives seemed to me the simpler. I resolved to hold my
tongue and let him run his course. He had a great deal to say about his
happiness, about the days passing like hours, the hours like minutes, and
about Madame Blumenthal being a "revelation." "She was nothing
to-night," he said; "nothing to what she sometimes is in the way of
brilliancy--in the way of repartee. If you could only hear her when she
tells her adventures!"
"Adventures?" I inquired. "Has she had adventures?"
"Of the most wonderful sort!" cried Pickering, with rapture. "She hasn't
vegetated, like me! She has lived in the tumult of life. When I listen
to her reminiscences, it's like hearing the opening tumult of one of
Beethoven's symphonies as it loses itself in a triumphant harmony of
beauty and faith!"
I could only lift my eyebrows, but I desired to know before we separated
what he had done with that troublesome conscience of his. "I suppose you
know, my dear fellow," I said, "that you are simply in love. That's what
they happen to call your state of mind."
He replied with a brightening eye, as if he were delighted to hear it--"So
Madame Blumenthal told me only this morning!" And seeing, I suppose,
that I was slightly puzzled, "I went to drive with her," he continued;
"we drove to Konigstein, to see the old castle.
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