Her garment was soft and clinging, and unlike any
garment he had ever seen. They sat on a sofa together, the table in front
of them, and they ate slowly and whispered much--and before Paul could
taste his wine, she kissed his glass and sipped from it and made him do
the same with hers. The food was of the simplest, and the only things
exotic were the great red strawberries at the end.
Dmitry had left them, placing the coffee on the table as he went, and a
bottle of the rare golden wine.
Then this strange lady grew more tender still. She must lie in Paul's
arms, and he must feed her with strawberries. And the thought came to him
that her mouth looked as red as they.
To say he was intoxicated with pleasure and love is to put it as it was.
It seemed as if he had arrived at a zenith, and yet he knew there would be
more to come. At last she raised herself and poured out the yellow
wine--into one glass.
"My Paul," she said, "this is our wedding might, and this is our wedding
wine. Taste from this our glass and say if it is good."
And to the day of his death, if ever Paul should taste that wine again, a
mad current of passionate remembrance will come to him--and still more
passionate regret.
Oh! the divine joy of that night! They sat upon the balcony presently, and
Elaine in her worshipping thoughts of Lancelot--Marguerite wooed by
Faust--the youngest girl bride--could not have been more sweet or tender
or submissive than this wayward Tiger Queen.
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