"What is the matter with you?" asked Marco.

But I sat like a statue, making no reply and looking at her from head to foot with amazement.

She began to laugh, and Desgenais, who could see us from his table, joined her. Before her was a large crystal gla.s.s, cut in the shape of a chalice, which reflected the glittering lights on its thousand sparkling facets, shining like the prism and revealing the seven colors of the rainbow. She listlessly extended her arm and filled it to the brim with Cyprian and a sweetened Oriental wine which I afterward found so bitter on the deserted Lido.

"Here," she said, presenting it to me, "_per voi, bambino mio_."

"For you and for me," I said, presenting her my gla.s.s in turn.

She moistened her lips while I emptied my gla.s.s, unable to conceal the sadness she seemed to read in my eyes.

"Is it not good?" she asked.

"No," I replied.

"Perhaps your head aches?"

"No."

"Or you are tired?"

"No."

"Ah! then it is the ennui of love?"

With these words she became serious, for in spite of herself, in speaking of love, her Italian heart beat the faster.

A scene of folly ensued. Heads were becoming heated, cheeks were a.s.suming that purple hue with which wine colors the face as though to prevent shame from appearing there; a confused murmur like to that of a rising sea could be heard all over the room, here and there eyes would become inflamed, then fixed and empty; I know not what wind stirred above this drunkenness. A woman rose, as in a tranquil sea the first wave that feels the tempest's breath, and rises to announce it; she makes a sign with her hand to command silence, empties her gla.s.s at a gulp, and with the same movement undoes her hair, which falls in shining tresses over her shoulders; she opens her mouth as though to start a drinking song; her eyes were half closed. She breathed with an effort; twice a harsh sound came from her throat; a mortal pallor overspread her features and she dropped into her chair.

Then came an uproar which lasted an hour. It was impossible to distinguish anything, either laughter, songs or cries.

"What do you think of it?" asked Desgenais.

"Nothing," I replied. "I have stopped my ears and am looking at it."

In the midst of that baccha.n.a.l the beautiful Marco remained mute, drinking nothing and leaning quietly on her bare arm. She seemed neither astonished nor affected by it.

"Do you not wish to do as they?" I asked. "You have just offered me Cyprian wine; why do you not drink some yourself?"

With these words I poured out a large gla.s.s full to the brim. She raised it to her lips, and then placed it on the table and resumed her listless att.i.tude.

The more I studied that Marco, the more singular she appeared; she took pleasure in nothing and did not seem to be annoyed by anything. It appeared as difficult to anger her as to please her; she did what was asked of her, but no more. I thought of the genius of eternal repose, and I imagined that if that pale statue should become somnambulant it would resemble Marco.

"Are you good or bad?" I asked. "Are you sad or gay? Are you loved? Do you wish to be loved? Are you fond of money, of pleasure, of what?

Horses, the country, b.a.l.l.s? What pleases you? Of what are you dreaming?"

To all these questions the same smile on her part, a smile that expressed neither joy nor sorrow, but which seemed to say, "What does it matter?"

and nothing more.

I held my lips to hers; she gave me a listless kiss and then pa.s.sed her handkerchief over her mouth.

"Marco," I said, "woe to him who loves you."

She turned her dark eyes on me, then turned them upward, and raising her finger with that Italian gesture which can not be imitated, she p.r.o.nounced that characteristic feminine word of her country:

"_Forse_!"

And then dessert was served. Some of the party had departed, some were smoking, others gambling, and a few still at table; some of the women danced, others slept. The orchestra returned; the candles paled and others were lighted. I recalled a supper of Petronius where the lights went out around the drunken masters, and the slaves entered and stole the silver. All the while songs were being sung in various parts of the room, and three Englishmen, three of those gloomy figures for whom the continent is a hospital, kept up a most sinister ballad that must have been born of the fogs of their marshes.

"Come," said I to Marco, "let us go."

She arose and took my arm.

"To-morrow!" cried Desgenais to me, as we left the hall.

When approaching Marco's house, my heart beat violently and I could not speak. I could not understand such a woman; she seemed to experience neither desire nor disgust, and could think of nothing but the fact that my hand was trembling and hers motionless.

Her room was, like her, somber and voluptuous; it was dimly lighted by an alabaster lamp.

The chairs and sofa were as soft as beds, and there was everywhere suggestion of down and silk. Upon entering I was struck with the strong odor of Turkish pastilles, not such as are sold here on the streets, but those of Constantinople, which are more nervous and more dangerous. She rang and a maid appeared. She entered an alcove without a word, and a few minutes later I saw her leaning on her elbow in her habitual att.i.tude of nonchalance.

I stood looking at her. Strange to say, the more I admired her, the more beautiful I found her, the more rapidly I felt my desires subside. I do not know whether it was some magnetic influence or her silence and listlessness. I lay down on a sofa opposite the alcove and the coldness of death settled on my soul.

The pulsation of the blood in the arteries is a sort of clock, the ticking of which can be heard only at night. Man, abandoned by exterior objects, falls back upon himself; he hears himself live. In spite of my fatigue I could not close my eyes; those of Marco were fixed on me; we looked at each other in silence, gently, so to speak.

"What are you doing there?" she asked.

She heaved a gentle sigh that was almost a plaint. I turned my head and saw that first gleams of morning light were shining through the window.

I arose and opened the window; a bright light penetrated every corner of the room. The sky was clear.

I motioned to her to wait. Considerations of prudence had led her to choose an apartment some distance from the center of the city; perhaps she had other quarters, for she sometimes received a number of visitors.

Her lover's friends sometimes visited her, and this room was doubtless only a _pet.i.te maison_; it overlooked the Luxembourg, the garden of which extended as far as my eye could reach.

As a cork held under water seems restless under the hand which holds it, and slips through the fingers to rise to the surface, thus there stirred in me a sentiment that I could neither overcome nor escape. The garden of the Luxembourg made my heart leap and banished every other thought. How many times had I stretched out on one of those little mounds, a sort sylvan school, while I read in the cool shade some book filled with foolish poetry! For such, alas! were the debauches of my childhood. I saw many souvenirs of the past among those leafless trees and faded lawns.

There, when ten years of age, I had walked with my brother and my tutor, throwing bits of bread to some of the poor benumbed birds; there, seated under a tree, I had watched a group of little girls as they danced; I felt my heart beat in unison with the refrain of their childish song; there, returning from school, I had followed a thousand times the same path, lost in contemplation of some verse of Virgil and kicking the pebbles at my feet. "Oh! my childhood! You are there!" I cried. "O, Heaven! now I am here."

I turned around. Marco was asleep, the lamp had gone out, the light of day had changed the aspect of the room; the hangings, which had at first appeared blue, were now a faded yellow, and Marco, the beautiful statue, was livid as death.

I shuddered in spite of myself; I looked at the alcove, then at the garden; my head became drowsy and fell on my breast. I sat down before an open secretary near one of the windows. A piece of paper caught my eye; it was an open letter, and I looked at it mechanically. I read it several times before I thought what I was doing. Suddenly a gleam of intelligence came to me, although I could not understand everything. I picked up the paper and read what follows, written in an unskilled hand and filled with errors in spelling:

"She died yesterday. She began to fail at twelve, the night before. She called me and said: 'Louison, I am going to join my companion; go to the closet and take down the cloth that hangs on a nail; it is the mate of the other.' I fell on my knees and wept, but she took my hand and said: 'Do not weep, do not weep!' And she heaved such a sigh--"

The rest was torn. I can not describe the impression, that sad letter made on me; I turned it over and saw on the other side Marco's address and the date, that of the evening previous.

"Is she dead? Who is dead?" I cried, going to the alcove. "Dead! Who?"