Of such seemed Paul
and his lady. It was as if they were snatching astonishing pleasures from
the very brink of some danger, none the less in magnitude because unknown.
They did not breakfast until after one o'clock the next day, and then she
bade him sleep--sleep on this other loggia where they sat, which gave upon
the side canal obliquely, while looking into a small garden of roses and
oleanders below. Here were shade and a cool small breeze.
"We are so weary, my beloved one," the lady said. "Let us sleep on these
couches of smooth silk, sleep the heavy hours of the afternoon away, and
go to the Piazza when the heat of the sun has lessened in measure."
An immense languor was over Paul--he asked nothing better than to rest
there in the perfumed shade, near enough to his loved one to be able to
stretch out his arm and touch her hair. And soon a sweet sleep claimed
him, and all was oblivion and peace.
The lady lay still on her couch for a while, her eyes gleaming between
their half-closed lids. But at last, when she saw that Paul indeed slept
deeply, she rose stealthily and crept from the place back to the room, the
gloomy vast room within, where she summoned Dmitry, and ordered the man
she had called Vasili the night before into her presence. He came with
cringing diffidence, prostrating himself to the ground before her, and
kissing the hem of her dress, mute adoration in his dark eyes, like those
of a faithful dog--a great scar showing blue on his bronzed cheek and
forehead.
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