She would peep from the windows, and frown at
the scene. The lake was hidden by mist, the skies cried, all nature was
weeping and gloomy.
And at last she flung the books aside, and crept up to Paul, who was
huddled on the sofa, feeling rather morose from her decree that he must
not touch or kiss her.
"Weeping skies, I hate you!" she said. Then she called Dmitry in a sharp
voice, and when he appeared from the passage where he always awaited her
pleasure, she spoke to him in Russian, or some language Paul knew not, a
fierce gleam in her eyes. Dmitry abased himself almost to the floor, and
departing quickly, returned with sticks and lit a blazing pine-log fire in
the open grate. Then he threw some powder into it, and with stealthy haste
drew all the orchid-silk curtains, and departed from the room. A strange
divine scent presently rose in the air, and over Paul seemed to steal a
spell. The lady crept still nearer, and then with infinite sweetness, all
her docility of the first hours of their union returned, she melted in his
arms.
"Paul--I am so wayward to-day, forgive me," she said in a childish,
lisping voice. "See, I will make you forget the rain and damp. Fly with me
to Egypt where the sun always shines."
And Paul, like a sulky, hungry baby, who had been debarred, and now
received its expected sweetmeat, clasped her and kissed her for a few
minutes before he would let her speak.
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