fountains, statues which do not know how to talk of you would have
nothing to say to me."

While he was dressing she turned the leaves of a book which she had found
on the table. It was The Arabian Nights. Romantic engravings displayed
here and there in the text grand viziers, sultanas, black tunics,
bazaars, and caravans.

She asked:

"The Arabian Nights-does that amuse you?"

"A great deal," he replied, tying his cravat. "I believe as much as I
wish in these Arabian princes whose legs become black marble, and in
these women of the harem who wander at night in cemeteries. These tales
give me pleasant dreams which make me forget life. Last night I went to
bed in sadness and read the history of the Three Calendars."

She said, with a little bitterness:

"You are trying to forget. I would not consent for anything in the world
to lose the memory of a pain which came to me from you."

They went down together to the street. She was to take a carriage a
little farther on and precede him at her house by a few minutes.

"My husband expects you to breakfast."

They talked, on the way, of insignificant things, which their love made
great and charming. They arranged their afternoon in advance in order to