taken to
gossiping. Madame may have a brother, I suppose. That--all green, and
red, and glitter, with flesh as dark as ebony--that is a slave; a
bloodthirsty, stabbing, slashing heathen, come from the hot countries to
cure your tongue of idle whispering.

A fine afternoon it is, with tall bright clouds sailing over the trees.

"Bonaparte, mon ami, the trees are golden like my star, the star I
pinned to your destiny when I married you. The gypsy, you remember her
prophecy! My dear friend, not here, the servants are watching; send them
away, and that flashing splendour, Roustan. Superb--Imperial, but..
. My dear, your arm is trembling; I faint to feel it touching me! No,
no, Bonaparte, not that--spare me that--did we not bury that last
night! You hurt me, my friend, you are so hot and strong. Not long,
Dear, no, thank God, not long."

The looped river runs saffron, for the sun is setting. It is getting
dark. Dark. Darker. In the moonlight, the slate roof shines palely
milkily white.

The roses have faded at Malmaison, nipped by the frost. What need for
roses? Smooth, open petals--her arms. Fragrant, outcurved
petals--her breasts. He rises like a sun above her, stooping to touch
the petals, press them wider. Eagles. Bees. What are they to open
roses! A little shivering breeze runs through the linden-trees, and the
tiered clouds blow across the sky like ships of the line, stately with
canvas.

III

The gates stand wide at Malmaison, stand wide all day. The gravel of
the avenue glints under the continual rolling of wheels. An officer
gallops up with his sabre clicking; a mameluke gallops down with his
charger kicking. 'Valets de pied' run about in ones, and twos, and
groups, like swirled blown leaves. Tramp! Tramp! The guard is
changing, and the grenadiers off duty lounge out of sight, ranging along
the roads toward Paris.

The slate roof sparkles in the sun, but it sparkles milkily, vaguely,
the great glass-houses put out its shining. Glass, stone, and onyx now
for the sun's mirror. Much has come to pass at Malmaison. New rocks and
fountains, blocks of carven marble, fluted pillars uprearing antique
temples, vases and urns in unexpected places, bridges of stone, bridges
of wood, arbours and statues, and a flood of flowers everywhere, new
flowers, rare flowers, parterre after parterre of flowers. Indeed, the
roses bloom at Malmaison. It is youth, youth untrammeled and advancing,
trundlin