“Through you,” I said.

She kissed me, and her kiss had at once the pure passion of a girl and the satisfied solicitude of a mother.

“Take me home!” she whispered.

Outside the hotel an open carriage happened to be standing.  I hailed the driver, and we got in.  The night was beautifully fine and mild.  In the narrow lane of sky left by the high roofs of the street the stars shone and twinkled with what was to me a new meaning.  For I was once more in accord with the universe.  I and Life were at peace again.

“Don’t let us go straight home,” said Rosa, as the driver turned towards us for instructions.  “It seems to me that a drive through Paris would be very enjoyable to-night.”

And so we told the man to proceed along the quays as far as he could, and then through the Champs Elysees to the Bois de Boulogne.  The Seine slept by its deserted parapets like a silver snake, and only the low rumble of the steam-car from Versailles disturbed its slumber.  The million lights of the gas-lamps, stretching away now and then into the endless vistas of the boulevards, spoke to me of the delicious companionship of humanity, from which I had so nearly been snatched away.  And the glorious girl by my side—­what of her companionship?  Ah, that was more than a companionship; it was a perfect intercourse which we shared.  No two human beings ever understood one another more absolutely, more profoundly, than did Rosa and myself, for we had been through the valley and through the flood together.  And so it happened that we did not trouble much with conversation.  It was our souls, not our mouths which talked—­talked softly and mysteriously in the gracious stillness and obscurity of that Paris night.  I learnt many things during that drive—­the depth of her love, the height of her courage, the ecstasy of her bliss.  And she, too, she must have learnt many things from me—­the warmth of my gratitude to her, a warmth which was only exceeded by the transcendent fire of my affection.

Presently we had left the borders of the drowsy Seine, which is so busy by day, so strangely silent by night.  We crossed the immense Place de la Concorde.  Once again we were rolling smoothly along the Champs Elysees.  Only a few hours before we had driven through this very avenue, Rosa and I, but with what different feelings from those which possessed us now!  How serene and quiet it was!  Occasionally a smooth-gliding carriage, or a bicyclist flitting by with a Chinese lantern at the head of his machine—­that was all.  As we approached the summit of the hill where the Arc de Triomphe is, a new phenomenon awaited us.  The moon rose—­a lovely azure crescent over the houses, and its faint mild rays were like a benediction upon us.  Then we had turned to the left, and were in the Bois de Boulogne.  We stopped the carriage under the trees, which met overhead; the delicatest breeze stirred the branches to a crooning murmur.  All around was solitude and a sort of hushed expectation.  Suddenly Rosa put her hand into mine, and with a simultaneous impulse we got out of the carriage and strolled along a by-path.