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In the heat of the glowing July afternoon, the room, with blinds carefullyclosed, was full of a great calm. From the three windows, through the cracks ofthe old wooden shutters, came only a few scattered sunbeams which, in the midstof the obscurity, made a soft brightness that bathed surrounding objects in adiffused and tender light. It was cool here in comparison with the overpoweringheat that was felt outside, under the fierce rays of the sun that blazed uponthe front of the house.
Standing before the press which faced the windows, Dr. Pascal was looking for apaper that he had come in search of. With doors wide open, this immense pressof carved oak, adorned with strong and handsome mountings of metal, dating fromthe last century, displayed within its capacious depths an extraordinarycollection of papers and manuscripts of all sorts, piled up in confusion andfilling every shelf to overflowing. For more than thirty years the doctor hadthrown into it every page he wrote, from brief notes to the complete texts ofhis great works on heredity. Thus it was that his searches here were not alwayseasy. He rummaged patiently among the papers, and when he at last found the onehe was looking for, he smiled.
For an instant longer he remained near the bookcase, reading the note by agolden sunbeam that came to him from the middle window. He himself, in thisdawnlike light, appeared, with his snow-white hair and beard, strong andvigorous; although he was near sixty, his color was so fresh, his features wereso finely cut, his eyes were still so clear, and he had so youthful an air thatone might have taken him, in his close-fitting, maroon velvet jacket, for ayoung man with powdered hair.
“Here, Clotilde,” he said at last, “you will copy this note.Ramond would never be able to decipher my diabolical writing.”
And he crossed the room and laid the paper beside the young girl, who stoodworking at a high desk in the embrasure of the window to the right.
“Very well, master,” she answered.
She did not even turn round, so engrossed was her attention with the pastelwhich she was at the moment rapidly sketching in with broad strokes of thecrayon. Near her in a vase bloomed a stalk of hollyhocks of a singular shade ofviolet, striped with yellow. But the profile of her small round head, with itsshort, fair hair, was clearly distinguishable; an exquisite and seriousprofile, the straight forehead contracted in a frown of attention, the eyes ofan azure blue, the nose delicately molded,