But it made me
nervous to remain silent, and see that nun sitting there, pen in hand,
but motionless as a post, and waiting for me to give her the signal to
continue the exercise of the principle to which her existence was now
devoted.
I went on with my dictation. I had left Marseilles, had touched slightly
upon Nice, and was now traveling by carriage on the Cornice Road to
Mentone. "It was on this road," I dictated, "that an odd incident
occurred to me. We were nearly opposite the old robber village of"--and
then I hesitated and stopped. I could not remember the name of the
village. I walked up and down my study, rubbing my forehead, but the
name would not recur to me. I was just thinking that I would have to go
to the library and look up the name of the village, when from out of the
depths of the nun's bonnet there came a voice, low but distinct, and, I
thought, a little impatient, and it said, "Eza."
"Eza! of course!" I exclaimed,--"certainly it is Eza! How could I have
forgotten it? I am very much obliged to you for reminding me of the name
of that village. Perhaps you have been there?"
In answer to this question I received the least little bit of a nod, and
the nun's pen began gently to paw the paper, as if it wanted to go on.
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