She lowered her eyes, and swayed her head as if accompanying a strain of music.  ‘I love you,’ he went on.  ’I know nothing about you.  I know not who you are, nor whence you came.  You are neither my mother nor my sister; and yet I love you to a point that I have given you my whole heart and kept nought of it for others.  Listen, I love those cheeks of yours, so soft and satiny; I love your mouth with its rose-sweet breath; I love your eyes, in which I see my own love reflected; I love even your eyelashes, even those little veins which blue the whiteness of your temples.  Ah! yes, I love you, I love you, Albine.’

‘And I love you, too,’ she answered.  ’You are strong, and tall, and handsome.  I love you, Serge.’

For a moment or two they remained silent, enraptured.  It seemed to them that soft, flute-like music went before them, that their own words came from some dulcet orchestra which they could not see.  Shorter and shorter became their steps as they leaned one towards the other, ever threading their way amidst the mighty trees.  Afar off through the long vista of the colonnades were glimpses of waning sunlight, showing like a procession of white-robed maidens entering church for a betrothal ceremony amid the low strains of an organ.

‘And why do you love me?’ asked Albine again.

He only smiled, and did not answer her immediately; then he said, ’I love you because you came to me.  That expresses all. . . .  Now we are together and we love one another.  It seems to me that I could not go on living if I did not love you.  You are the very breath of my life.’

He bent his head, speaking almost as though he were in a dream.

’One does not know all that at first.  It grows up in one as one’s heart grows.  One has to grow, one has to get strong. . . .  Do you remember how we loved one another though we didn’t speak of it?  One is childish and silly at first.  Then, one fine day, it all becomes clear, and bursts out.  You see, we have nothing to trouble about; we love one another because our love and our life are one.’

Albine’s head was cast back, her eyes were tightly closed, and she scarce drew her breath.  Serge’s caressing words enraptured her:  ’Do you really, really love me?’ she murmured, without opening her eyes.

Serge remained silent, sorely troubled that he could find nothing further to say to prove to her the force of his love.  His eyes wandered over her rosy face, which lay upon his shoulder with the restfulness of sleep.  Her eyelids were soft as silk.  Her moist lips were curved into a bewitching smile, her brow was pure white, with just a rim of gold below her hair.  He would have liked to give his whole being with the word which seemed to be upon his tongue but which he could not utter.  Again he bent over her, and seemed to consider on what sweet spot of that fair face he should whisper the supreme syllables.  But he said nothing, he only breathed a little sigh.  Then he kissed Albine’s lips.