This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> [NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an entire meal of them. D.W.] THE INK STAIN BY RENE BAZIN (Tache d'Encre) By RENE BAZIN BOOK 2. CHAPTER VIII JOY AND MADNESS May 1st. These four days have seemed as if they never would end--especially the last. But now it wants only two minutes of noon. In two minutes, if Lampron is not late-- Rat-a-tat-tat! "Come in." "It is twelve o'clock, my friend; are you coming?" It was Lampron. For the last hour I had had my hat on my head, my stick between my legs, and had been turning over my essay with gloved hands. He laughed at me. I don't care. We walked, for the day was clear and warm. All the world was out and about. Who can stay indoors on May Day? As we neared the Chamber of Deputies, perambulators full of babies in white capes came pouring from all the neighboring streets, and made their resplendent way toward the Tuileries. Lampron was in a talkative mood. He was pleased with the hanging of his pictures, and his plan of compaign against Mademoiselle Jeanne. "She is sure to have heard of it, Fabien, and perhaps is there already. Who can tell?" "Oh, cease your humbug! Yes, very possibly she is there before us. I have had a feeling that she would be for these last four days." "You don't say so!" "I have pictured her a score of times ascending the staircase on her father's arm. We are at the foot, lost in the crowd. Her noble, clear- cut profile stands out against the Gobelin tapestries which frame it with their embroidered flowers; one would say some maiden of bygone days had come to life, and stepped down from her tapestried panel." "Gentlemen!" said Lampron, with a sweep of his arm which took in the whole of the Place de la Concorde, "allow me to present to you the intending successor of Counsellor Mouillard, lawyer, of Bourges. Every inch of him a man of business!" We were getting near. Crowds were on their way to the exhibition from all sides, women in spring frocks, many of the men in white waistcoats, one hand in pocket, gayly flourishing their canes with the other, as much as to say, "Look at me-well-to-do, jaunty, and out in fine weather." The turnstiles were crowded, but at last we got through. We made but one step across the gravel court, the realm of sculpture where antique gods in every posture formed a mythological circle round the modern busts in the central walk. There was no loitering here, for my heart was elsewhere. We cast a look at an old wounded Gaul, an ancestor unhonored by the crowd, and started up the staircase--no Jeanne to lead the way. We came to the first room of paintings. Sylvestre beamed like a man who feels at home. "Quick, Sylvestre, where is the sketch? Let's hurry to it."