ere stifled in his throat.
Twilight descended from the far-off mountains, and the last reflections
of the sun became pallid in the east. She said:

"If you knew my life, if you had seen how empty it was before I knew you,
you would know what you are to me, and would not think of abandoning me."

But, with the tranquil tone of her voice and with the rustle of her
skirts on the pavement, she irritated him.

He told her how he suffered. He knew now the divine malady of love.

"The grace of your thoughts, your magnificent courage, your superb pride,
I inhale them like a perfume. It seems to me when you speak that your
mind is floating on your lips. Your mind is for me only the odor of your
beauty. I have retained the instincts of a primitive man; you have
reawakened them. I feel that I love you with savage simplicity."

She looked at him softly and said nothing. They saw the lights of
evening, and heard lugubrious songs coming toward them. And then, like
spectres chased by the wind, appeared the black penitents. The crucifix
was before them. They were Brothers of Mercy, holding torches, singing
psalms on the way to the cemetery. In accordance with the Italian custom,
the cortege marched quickly. The crosses, the coffin, the banners, seemed
to leap on the deserted quay. Jacques and Therese stood against the wall
in order that the funeral train might pass.

The black avalanche had disappeared. There were women weeping behind the
coffin carried by the black phantoms, who wore heavy shoes.

Therese sighed:

"What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world?"

He looked as if he had not heard, and said:

"Before I knew you I was not unhappy. I liked life. I was retained in it
by dreams. I liked forms, and the mind in forms, the appearances that
caress and flatter. I had the joy of seeing and of dreaming. I enjoyed
everything and depended upon nothing. My desires, abundant and light, I
gratified without fatigue. I was interested in everything and wished for
nothing. One suffers only through the will. Without knowing it, I was
happy. Oh, it was not much, it was only enough to live. Now I have no joy
in life. My pleasures, the interest that I took in the images of life and
of art, the vivid amusement of creating with my hands the figures of my
dreams--you have made me lose everything and have not left me even
regret. I do not want my liberty and tranquillity again. It seems to me
that before I knew you I d