"We shall not stay in the gondola long, my Paul," she said. "I cannot bear
to be out of your arms, and our palace is fair. And oh! my beloved,
to-night I shall feast you as never before. The night of our full moon!
Paul, I have ordered a bower of roses and music and song. I want you to
remember it the whole of your life."
"As though I could forget a moment of our time, my sweet," said Paul. "It
needs no feasts or roses--only whatever delights you to do, delights me
too."
"Paul," she cooed after a while, during which her hand had lain in his and
there had been a soft silence, "is not this a life of joy, so smooth and
gliding, this way of Venice? It seems far from ruffles and storms. I shall
love it always, shall not you? and you must come back in other years and
study its buildings and its history, Paul--with your new, fine eyes."
"We shall come together, my darling," he answered. "I should never want
anything alone."
"Sweetheart!" she cooed again in his ears; and then presently, "Paul," she
said, "some day you must read 'Salammbo,' that masterpiece of Flaubert's.
There is a spirit of love in that which now you would understand--the love
which looked out of Matho's eyes when his body was beaten to jelly. It is
the love I have for you, my own--a love 'beyond all words or sense'--as one
of your English poets says.
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