"My laboratory is no more," he answered. "It seems I am remiss of occupation and direction, at least for a short while — so I find myself untethered. And I have come here because Paris lends itself to that state of being much better than home." He looked at her as she leaned in and smiled slightly and added, "I intend to become distracted. Even if that requires a visit to the opera." Now it was as if they entered back into the space they had left off at the soirée—and as if this evening was meant to play out exactly as the other did, a man stepped out of one of the boxes and put a hand on Samuel Griffith's shoulder. Just his grip was light and he was not Mr. Travers; it was Samuel's friend Yves. He was a chameleon-like sort who seemed always at home where he was and also slightly out of place. His manner of dressing said old wealth; his face suggested a poet; his sly eyes said he might be none of that at all.
"I was just about to say that I came to the opera tonight to meet you, Yves," said Samuel to Yves. "And to accost you for your opinion on where to go thereafter."
Yves inclined his head towards Miss Blackwood and said: "Delighted to be in your company, madmoiselle." After her name he inquired not, nor did he supply his own, at least not his full name. His gloved hand gestured towards one of the high windows, through which the moon could be seen. It shone above, full and bright. "As it happens, we are in the ides of August. The zenith of summer is passing us by. We cannot help but recall what is to come. To honor this wistful occasion, we should all head tonight to the residence of Monsieur Jacques in Montparnasse." He smiled at them. "I'll see you later. Ah, it will be a masquerade. Comme il faut," and then he bowed out and left them.
On the stage, the opera was reaching a crescendo; something grave was happening — perhaps a calamity, a fall from grace, perhaps the death of innocence. Samuel had not paid much attention. He looked at Miss Blackwood and said, "Now, I know where I will find the sort of dance I was looking for since we last met at that dreadful soirée. Will you join me? That is," allowing the conspiratorial manner they seemed to share to return, "if you can arrange for yourself to be sufficiently free."
"I was just about to say that I came to the opera tonight to meet you, Yves," said Samuel to Yves. "And to accost you for your opinion on where to go thereafter."
Yves inclined his head towards Miss Blackwood and said: "Delighted to be in your company, madmoiselle." After her name he inquired not, nor did he supply his own, at least not his full name. His gloved hand gestured towards one of the high windows, through which the moon could be seen. It shone above, full and bright. "As it happens, we are in the ides of August. The zenith of summer is passing us by. We cannot help but recall what is to come. To honor this wistful occasion, we should all head tonight to the residence of Monsieur Jacques in Montparnasse." He smiled at them. "I'll see you later. Ah, it will be a masquerade. Comme il faut," and then he bowed out and left them.
On the stage, the opera was reaching a crescendo; something grave was happening — perhaps a calamity, a fall from grace, perhaps the death of innocence. Samuel had not paid much attention. He looked at Miss Blackwood and said, "Now, I know where I will find the sort of dance I was looking for since we last met at that dreadful soirée. Will you join me? That is," allowing the conspiratorial manner they seemed to share to return, "if you can arrange for yourself to be sufficiently free."
