He said to her:

"I know that you are simple, and that I cannot be like you. But I know
that I love you. You are from here, and you must have been rocked in
a basket placed on a black chair like that which I have seen in a
picture. I love you. Your mother must spin linen. You must have danced
under the trees with strong handsome laughing boys. I must seem sick
and sad to you. I was not born in the fields at harvest time. We
were born in a beautiful room, I and a little twin sister who died at
birth. My mother was sick. Poor people are strong."

Then they embraced more closely on the bed where they lay together.

She said to him:

"I have your heart."

He said to her:

"I have your heart."

* * * * *

They had a sweet little boy.

And the poet, feeling that the illness which had so weighed upon him
had fled, said to his wife:

"My mother does not know what has become of me. My heart is wrung with