ield, since she was not free; but she
had exacted nothing. Perhaps she was for him only a violent caprice. She
did not know him. She had not one of those vivid imaginations that
surpass immensely, in good as in evil, common mediocrity. If he went away
from her and disappeared she would not reproach him for it; at least, she
thought not. She would keep the reminiscence and the imprint of the
rarest and most precious thing one may find in the world. Perhaps he was
incapable of real attachment. He thought he loved her. He had loved her
for an hour. She dared not wish for more, in the embarrassment of the
false situation which irritated her frankness and her pride, and which
troubled the lucidity of her intelligence. While the carriage was
carrying her to San Marco, she persuaded herself that he would say
nothing to her of the day before, and that the room from which one could
see the pines rise to the sky would leave to them only the dream of a
dream.

He extended his hand to her. Before he had spoken she saw in his look
that he loved her as much now as before, and she perceived at the same
time that she wished him to be thus.

"You--" he said, "I have been here since noon. I was waiting, knowing
that you would not come so soon, but able to live only at the place where
I was to see you. It is you! Talk; let me see and hear you."

"Then you still love me?"

"It is now that I love you. I thought I loved you when you were only a
phantom. Now, you are the being in whose hands I have put my soul. It is
true that you are mine! What have I done to obtain the greatest, the
only, good of this world? And those men with whom the earth is covered
think they are living! I alone live! Tell me, what have I done to obtain
you?"

"Oh, what had to be done, I did. I say this to you frankly. If we have
reached that point, the fault is mine. You see, women do not always
confess it, but it is always their fault. So, whatever may happen, I
never will reproach you for anything."

An agile troupe of yelling beggars, guides, and coachmen surrounded them
with an importunity wherein was mingled the gracefulness which Italians
never lose. Their subtlety made them divine that these were lovers, and
they knew that lovers are prodigal. Dechartre threw coin to them, and
they all returned to their happy laziness.

A municipal guard received the visitors. Madame Martin regretted that
there was no monk. The white gown of the Dominicans was so beautif