“It’s a good thing we’ve made it past dinner,” Severn said, sitting up and stretching. “I have nothing to offer you tonight except whatever one silver franc can buy.”
The cat, curled on his knee, stood up, arched her back, yawned, and looked at him.
“What would you like? Roast chicken and salad? No? Beef, perhaps? Of course. I’ll have an egg and some white bread.”
“And the wine? Milk for you?”
He nodded toward the bucket by the sink.
“Good. I’ll have some fresh water from the woods.”
He put on his hat and left.
The cat followed him to the door. When he closed it behind him, she settled down beside it, sniffing at the cracks and lifting one ear whenever the old building creaked.
A door opened and closed somewhere below.
The cat became suddenly tense. Her ears flattened, and for a moment she seemed unsure what to do.
Then her tail flicked sharply, and she began silently exploring the studio.
She sneezed when she reached a jar of turpentine and quickly retreated to the table.
After climbing onto it, she inspected a roll of red modeling wax with great interest. Satisfied at last, she returned to the door and sat staring at the narrow gap beneath it.
Then she let out a thin, mournful cry.
When Severn came back, his face was serious.
The cat, however, was delighted.
She circled his legs, rubbing her thin body against him. She pushed her head eagerly into his hand and purred so loudly that the sound rose into a little squeal.
Severn placed a piece of meat wrapped in brown paper on the table. He took out his penknife and cut it into tiny strips.
Then he poured milk from an old medicine bottle into a saucer beside the fireplace.
The cat crouched over it, purring as she drank.
Severn cooked his egg and ate it with a slice of bread. He watched the cat happily devour the strips of meat.
When he had finished eating, he filled a cup from the bucket, drank it, and filled it again.
Then he sat down and lifted the cat onto his lap.
She immediately curled up and began washing herself.
Severn stroked her gently as he spoke.
“Cat, I’ve found out where your mistress lives.”
“It isn’t far away. In fact, she’s here, under this same leaking roof. She lives in the north wing, the part of the building I thought was empty.”
“My janitor told me. By some miracle, he was almost sober tonight.”
“The butcher on the Rue de Seine, where I bought your meat, knows you too. And old Cabane, the baker, recognized you with more sarcasm than was necessary.”
“They all had unpleasant things to say about your mistress, but I don’t believe them.”
“They say she’s lazy, vain, and fond of pleasure. They say she’s reckless and foolish.”
“The little sculptor on the ground floor was buying bread from old Cabane when I spoke to him. It was the first time we had ever exchanged more than a polite nod.”
“He said she was very good and very beautiful.”
“He has seen her only once. He doesn’t even know her name.”
“I thanked him.”
Severn paused and looked down at the cat.
“I don’t know why I thanked him so warmly.”
“Cabane said, ‘Into this cursed Street of the Four Winds, the four winds blow every evil thing.’”
“The sculptor looked embarrassed. But when he left with his bread, he turned back and said, ‘I’m sure, Monsieur, that she is as good as she is beautiful.’”
The cat finished washing herself.
She jumped quietly to the floor and went back to the door, sniffing at it.
Severn knelt beside her.
He took the garter from his pocket and held it in his hands for a moment.
“There’s a name engraved on the silver clasp beneath the buckle.”
He looked at it carefully.
“It’s a beautiful name. Sylvia Elven.”
“Sylvia is a woman’s name. Elven is the name of a town.”
“In Paris, especially in this part of Paris, and above all in this Street of the Four Winds, names are treated like fashions. They appear, disappear, and are forgotten as quickly as the seasons change.”
“I know the little town of Elven. I met Fate there once, face to face.”
“Fate was not kind to me.”
“But do you know something?”
“In Elven, Fate had another name.”
“That name was Sylvia.”
He fastened the garter again and stood.
The cat was crouched before the closed door.
“The name Elven has always had a strange charm for me. It makes me think of meadows and clear rivers.”
“But Sylvia…”
“The name Sylvia troubles me. It is like the scent of flowers that have already died.”
The cat mewed softly.
“Yes, yes,” Severn murmured. “I’ll take you back.”
“Your Sylvia isn’t my Sylvia. The world is a large place, and Elven is hardly an unknown name.”
“Still, here in the darkness and filth of poor Paris, beneath the sad shadows of this ancient house, those two names sound strangely beautiful to me.”
He picked up the cat and carried her through the silent corridors.
He went down five flights of stairs and crossed the moonlit courtyard.
He passed the little sculptor’s room, then returned to the entrance of the north wing.
He climbed the worm-eaten stairs until he reached a closed door.
He knocked.
He waited.
He knocked again.
After a long time, something moved inside.
The door opened.
Severn stepped in.
The room was completely dark.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the cat leaped from his arms and disappeared into the shadows.
He stood still and listened.
Nothing.
The silence felt heavy and unnatural.
He struck a match.
Beside him stood a table. On it was a candle in a gilded candlestick.
He lit it and slowly looked around.
The room was enormous.
Heavy embroidered curtains covered the walls. Above the fireplace rose a carved mantel, gray with the ashes of long-dead fires.
In a deep recess beside the windows stood a bed.
Its blankets were soft and delicate, almost like lace, and they spilled onto the polished floor.
Severn raised the candle.
Something lay at his feet.
A handkerchief.
He picked it up.
It carried the faintest trace of perfume.
He turned toward the windows.
A canapé stood before them.
Clothes had been thrown across it in careless confusion—a silk gown, piles of delicate white garments as fine as spiderwebs, and long, crumpled gloves.
On the floor beneath them lay stockings, small pointed shoes, and a single garter of rose-colored silk, decorated with tiny flowers and fastened with a silver clasp.
Severn stared at the scene in confusion.
Then he stepped toward the bed and pulled back the heavy curtains.
The candle flame suddenly flared.
And he saw her.
Two wide-open eyes looked back at him.
They were smiling.
The candlelight moved across hair as bright and heavy as gold.
She was pale, but not nearly as pale as Severn.
Her eyes were calm and innocent, like a child’s.
Severn stood trembling from head to foot.
The candle shook in his hand.
At last, he whispered,
“Sylvia.”
He could barely speak.
“It’s me.”
He said it again.
“It’s me.”
Then he understood.
She was dead.
Severn bent down and kissed her gently on the lips.
And throughout the long hours of that night, the cat remained curled on his knee, purring softly as she opened and closed her padded claws.
Outside, the sky slowly grew pale above the Street of the Four Winds.