hted the nearby canal. On the ceiling a spot of light flickered with
the reflection of the dead water, constantly crossed by lines of shadow.
They, closely embraced, watched this play of light and water above them.
They knew that outside it was cold and damp; they exulted in their
physical warmth, in the selfishness of being together, with that
delicious sense of comfort, buried in silence as if the world were a
thing of the past, as if their chamber were a warm oasis, in the midst
of cold and darkness.

Sometimes they heard a mournful cry in the silence. _Aooo!_ It was the
gondolier giving warning before he turned the corner. Across the spot of
light which shimmered on the ceiling slipped a black, Lilliputian
gondola, a shadow toy, on the stern of which bent a manikin the size of
a fly, wielding the oar. And, thinking of those who passed in the rain,
lashed by the icy gusts, they experienced a new pleasure and clung
closer to each other under the soft cider-down and their lips met,
disturbing the calm of their rest with the noisy insolence of youth and
love.

Renovales no longer felt cold. He turned restlessly on the mattresses;
the metallic embroidery of the cushions stuck in his face; he stretched
out his arms in the darkness, and the silence was broken by a despairing
cry, the lament of a child who demands the impossible, who asks for the
moon.

"Josephina! Josephina!"

III

One morning the painter sent an urgent summons to Cotoner and the latter
arrived in great alarm at the terms of the message.

"It's nothing serious," said Renovales. "I want you to tell me where
Josephina was buried. I want to see her."

It was a desire which had been slowly taking form in his mind during
several nights; a whim of the long hours of sleeplessness through which
he dragged in the darkness.

More than a week before, he had moved into the large chamber, choosing
among the bed linen, with a painstaking care that surprised the
servants, the most worn sheets, which called up old memories with their
embroidery. He did not find in this linen that perfume of the closets
which had disturbed him so deeply; but there was something in them, the
illusion, the certainty that she had many a time touched them.

After soberly and severely telling Cotoner of his wish, Renovales felt
that he must offer some excuse. It was disgraceful that he did not know
where Josephina was; that he had not yet gone to visit her. His grief at
her