on the way that leads to the depths
of the infinite.

His tears continued to fall in the silence, in sweet relief; his voice,
broken by sobs, stilled the birds with fear. "Josephina! Josephina!" And
the echo answered with dull, mocking cries, from the smooth walls of the
mausoleums, from the invisible end of the colonnades.

The artist could not resist the temptation to step over the rusted
chains which surrounded the grave. To feel her nearer! To overcome the
short distance which separated them! To mock death with a loving kiss of
intense gratitude for forgiveness!

The huge frame of the master covered the slab of marble, his arms
encircled it as if he would pick it up from the ground and carry it away
with him. His lips eagerly sought the highest part of the stone.

He wished to find the spot which covered her face and he began to kiss
it, moving his head as if he were going to dash it against the marble.

A sensation of stone, warmed by the sun, on his lips; a taste of dust,
insipid and repulsive in his mouth. Renovales sat up, rose to his feet
as if he had awakened, as if the cemetery, until then invisible, was
suddenly restored to reality. The faint odor of decay once more struck
him.

Now he saw the grave, as he had seen it the day before. He no longer
wept. The immense disappointment dried his tears, though within him he
felt the longing for weeping increased. Horrible awakening! Josephina
was not there; only the void was about him. It was useless to seek the
past in the field of death. Memories could not be aroused in that cold
ground, stirred by worms and decay. Oh, where had he come to seek his
dreams! From what a foul dunghill he had tried to raise the roses of his
memories!

In fancy he saw her beneath that repugnant marble in all the
repulsiveness of death, and this vision left him cold, indifferent. What
had he to do with such wretchedness? No; Josephina was not there. She
was truly dead, and if he ever was to see her it would not be beside her
grave.

Once more he wept--not with external tears but within; he mourned the
bitterness of solitude, the inability to exchange a single thought with
her. He had so many things to tell her which were burning his soul! How
he would talk with her, if some mysterious power would bring her back
for an instant. He would implore her forgiveness; he would throw himself
at her feet, lamenting the error of his life, the painful deceit of
having remained beside her