He kept on passing the long curls through his hands, and pressing them to his lips, as if to squeeze from them all Albine’s blood.  And after an interval of silence, he continued:  ’It’s strange, before one’s birth, one dreams of being born. . . .  I was buried somewhere.  I was very cold.  I could hear all the life of the world outside buzzing above me.  But I shut my ears despairingly, for I was used to my gloomy den, and enjoyed some fearful delights in it, so that I never sought to free myself from all the earth weighing upon my chest.  Where could I have been then?  Who was it gave me light?’

He struggled to remember, while Albine now waited in fear and trembling lest he should really do so.  Smiling, she took a handful of her hair and wound it round the young man’s neck, thus fastening him to herself.  This playful act roused him from his musings.

‘You’re right,’ he said, ’I am yours, what does the rest matter?  It was you, was it not, who drew me out of the earth?  I must have been under this garden.  What I heard were your steps rattling the little pebbles in the path.  You were looking for me, you brought down upon my head the songs of the birds, the scent of the pinks, the warmth of the sun.  I fancied that you would find me at last.  I waited a long time for you.  But I never expected that you would give yourself to me without your veil, with your hair undone—­the terrible hair which has become so soft.’

He sat her on his lap, placing his face beside hers.

’Do not let us talk any more.  We are alone for ever.  We love each other.’

And thus in all innocence they lingered in each other’s arms; for a long, long time did they remain there forgetfully.  The sun rose higher; and the dust of light fell hotter from the lofty boughs.  The yellow and white and crimson roses were now only a ray of their delight, a sign of their smiles to one another.  They had certainly caused buds to open around them.  The roses crowned their heads and threw garlands about their waists.  And the scent of the roses became so penetrating, so strong with amorous emotion, that it seemed to be the scent of their own breath.

At last Serge put up Albine’s hair.  He raised it in handfuls with delightful awkwardness, and stuck her comb askew in the enormous knot that he had heaped upon her head.  And as it happened she looked bewitching thus.  Then, rising from the ground, he held out his hands to her, and supported her waist as she got up.  They still smiled without speaking a word, and slowly they went down the path.

VII

Albine and Serge entered the flower garden.  She was watching him with tender anxiety, fearing lest he should overtire himself; but he reassured her with a light laugh.  He felt strong enough indeed to carry her whithersoever she listed.  When he found himself once more in the full sunlight, he drew a sigh of content.  At last he lived; he was no longer a plant subject to the terrible sufferings of