t rustled ever so
faintly in what little wind was stirring. What was there of memory in
this night, this garden? Some dark sweet thing, invisible, to feel whose
presence was at once ecstasy, and the irritation of a thirst that will
not be quenched.

And he walked on. Houses, houses! At last he was away from them, alone
on the high road, beyond the limits of Monaco. And walking thus through
the night he had thoughts that he imagined no one had ever had before
him. The knowledge that she loved him had made everything seem very
sacred and responsible. Whatever he did, he must not harm her. Women
were so helpless!

For in spite of six years of art in Rome and Paris, he still had a
fastidious reverence for women. If she had loved her husband she would
have been safe enough from him; but to be bound to a companionship that
she gave unwillingly--this had seemed to him atrocious, even before he
loved her. How could any husband ask that? Have so little pride--so
little pity? The unpardonable thing! What was there to respect in such
a marriage? Only, he must not do her harm! But now that her eyes had
said, I love you!--What then? It was simply miraculous to know THAT,
under the stars of this warm Southern night, burning its incense of trees
and flowers!

Climbing up above the road, he lay down. If only she were there beside
him! The fragrance of the earth not yet chilled, crept to his face; and
for just a moment it seemed to him that she did come. If he could keep
her there for ever in that embrace that was no embrace--in that ghostly
rapture, on this wild fragrant bed that no lovers before had ever
pressed, save the creeping things, and the flowers; save sunlight and
moonlight with their shadows; and the wind kissing the earth! . . .

Then she was gone; his hands touched nothing but the crumbled pine dust,
and the flowers of the wild thyme fallen into sleep.

He stood on the edge of the little cliff, above the road between the dark
mountains and the sea black with depth. Too late for any passer-by; as
far from what men thought and said and did as the very night itself with
its whispering warmth. And he conjured up her face, making certain of
it--the eyes, clear and brown, and wide apart; the close, sweet mouth;
the dark hair; the whole flying loveliness.

Then he leaped down into the road, and ran--one could not walk, feeling
this miracle, that no one had ever felt before, the miracle of love.

III