They were talking, she thought, of two different things. Who cares about mistakes in the arts!
The sun went into its repertoire from orange to winy red, and they started back into the melee of the home bound. Steel shutters clanged and moons of lemon light flooded café tables.
"Paris smells old, like a moldy makeup box," she remarked as they sat in a café near the Arch.
She sat exhausted, turning her ankles to cool her soles. It was the most she'd walked in her life. If she mentioned it he'd hustle her back to the Ritz.
"Well," she said finally in case he wanted to get rid of her, as he sat saying nothing, "I suppose I ought to go back to the hotel."
"I'll walk you down," Vermillion said cheerfully.
She wondered whether she could stand the burning pain of her feet but was afraid to intimate it for fear of shortening the time by riding. They started down the Champs Elysees, branching off through quiet streets to follow the Seine. The disturbing night odor of the river tantalized and more of the myriad moons of the city beckoned shimmeringly from between the plane trees.
"The houses are so dark. The people shut themselves in at night, don't they?" she said, feeling lonely.
"People who live here are still in the country or at the seashore."
The first dry chestnut leaves of late summer crunched under their feet.
"Sounds like autumn." She shook her head to dispel the mournful sound.
"Chestnuts live hard and fast. Wear themselves out early."
"Like me."
"You mustn't say that."
"You sound like Vida. I told her when you're dead, you're dead."
"How do you know?"
When they reached the Concorde she was limping badly and scanned the vast Place wondering if she could make it.
"You're limping!"
"Oh no, but I must admit high heels aren't for walking."
"It isn't much further. This is the rue de Rivoli, your hotel is only beyond that short street. See, there's the column."
"We just passed one."
"That's an obelisk, a gift from Egypt. There's one like it back of the Metropolitan."
