heart, I sit down in a corner,
seized with shivering. Then I obliterate myself in another corner,
equally forlorn. It seems as if Marie has gone away with all I have.
I am in mourning and I am all alone, because of her.

CHAPTER IV

MARIE

The seat leans against the gray wall, at the spot where a rose tree
hangs over it, and the lane begins to slope to the river. I asked
Marie to come, and I am waiting for her in the evening.

When I asked her--in sudden decision after so many days of
hesitation--to meet me here this evening, she was silent, astonished.
But she did not refuse; she did not answer. Some people came and she
went away. I am waiting for her, after that prayer.

Slowly I stroll to the river bank. When I return some one is on the
seat, enthroned in the shadow. The face is indistinct, but in the
apparel of mourning I can see the neck-opening, like a faint pale
heart, and the misty expansion of the skirt. Stooping, I hear her low
voice, "I've come, you see." And, "Marie!" I say.

I sit down beside her, and we remain silent. She is there--wholly.
Through her black veils I can make out the whiteness of her face and
neck and hands--all her beauty, like light enclosed.

For me she had only been a charming picture, a passer-by, one apart,
living her own life. Now she has listened to me; she has come at my
call; she has brought herself here.

* * * * * *

The day has been scorching. Towards the end of the afternoon
storm-rain burst over the world and then ceased. One can still hear
belated drops falling from the branches which overhang the wall. The
air is charged with odors of earth and leaves and flowers, and wreaths
of wind go heavily by.

She is the first to speak; she speaks of one thing and another.

I do not know what she is saying; I draw nearer to see her lips; I
answer her, "I am always thinking of you."

Hearing these words, she is silent. Her silence grows greater and
greater in the shadows. I have drawn still nearer; so near that I feel
on my cheek the wing-beat of her breath; so near that her silence
caresses me.

Then, to keep myself in countenance, or to smoke, I have struck a
match, but I make no use of the gleam at my finger-tips. It shows me
Marie, quivering a little; it gilds her pale face. A smile arises on
her face; I have seen her full of that smile.

My eyes grow dim and my hands tremble. I wish she would speak.