For me she had only been a charming picture, a passer-by, one apart,
living her own life. Now she has listened to me; she has come at my
call; she has brought herself here.

* * * * * *

The day has been scorching. Towards the end of the afternoon
storm-rain burst over the world and then ceased. One can still hear
belated drops falling from the branches which overhang the wall. The
air is charged with odors of earth and leaves and flowers, and wreaths
of wind go heavily by.

She is the first to speak; she speaks of one thing and another.

I do not know what she is saying; I draw nearer to see her lips; I
answer her, "I am always thinking of you."

Hearing these words, she is silent. Her silence grows greater and
greater in the shadows. I have drawn still nearer; so near that I feel
on my cheek the wing-beat of her breath; so near that her silence
caresses me.

Then, to keep myself in countenance, or to smoke, I have struck a
match, but I make no use of the gleam at my finger-tips. It shows me
Marie, quivering a little; it gilds her pale face. A smile arises on
her face; I have seen her full of that smile.

My eyes grow dim and my hands tremble. I wish she would speak.