CHAPTER IX


THE WONDERFUL WEEK.

As Antony and Silencieux became more and more to each other, poor
Beatrice, though she had been the first occasion of their love, and
little as she now demanded, seldom as Antony spoke to her, seldom as he
smiled upon her, distant as were the lonely walks she took, infrequent
as was her sad footfall in the little wood,--poor Beatrice, though
indeed, so far from active intrusion upon their loves, and as if only by
her breathing with them the heavy air of that green unwholesome valley,
was becoming an irksome presence of the imagination. They longed to be
somewhere together where Beatrice had never been, where her sad face
could not follow them; and one night Silencieux whispered to Antony:--

"Take me to the sea, Antony--to some lonely sea."

"To-morrow I will take you," said Antony, "where the loneliest land
meets the loneliest sea."

On the morrow evening the High Muses had once more made Antony late for
dinner. One hour, and two hours, went by, and then Beatrice, in alarm,
took the lantern and courageously braved the blackness of the wood.

The châlet was in darkness, and the door was locked, but through the
uncurtained glass of the window, she was able to irradiate the emptiness
of its interior. Antony was not there.