they had arrived that day. But I was not destined to see either of
them again. They went away, I suppose, next morning; jointly or
singly; singly, I imagine.

They made, however, a prolonged stay in my young memory, and would
have done so even had I not had that tangible memento of them. Who
were they, those two of whom that one strange glimpse had befallen me?
What, I wondered, was the previous history of each? What, in
particular, had all that tragic pother been about? Mlle. Ange'lique I
guessed to be thirty years old, her friend perhaps fifty-five. Each of
their faces was as clear to me as in the moment of actual vision--the
man's fat shiny bewildered face; the taut white face of the woman, the
hard red line of her mouth, the eyes that were not flashing, but
positively dull, with rage. I presumed that the fan had been a present
from him, and a recent present--bought perhaps that very day, after
their arrival in the town. But what, what had he done that she should
break it between her hands, scattering the splinters as who should sow
dragon's teeth? I could not believe he had done anything much amiss. I
imagined her grievance a trivial one. But this did not make the case
less engrossing. Again and again I would take the fan-stump from my
pocket, examining it on the palm of my hand, or between finger and
thumb, hoping to read the mystery it had been mixed up in, so that I
might reveal that mystery to the world. To the world, yes; nothing
less than that. I was determined to make a story of what I had seen--a
conte in the manner of great Guy de Maupassant. Now and again, in the
course of the past year or so, it had occurred to me that I might be a
writer. But I had not felt the impulse to sit down and write
something. I did feel that impulse now. It would indeed have been an
irresistible impulse if I had known just what to write.