“Marco,” I said, “woe to him who loves you.”

She turned her dark eyes on me, then turned them upward, and raising her finger with that Italian gesture which can not be imitated, she pronounced that characteristic feminine word of her country: 

“Forse!”

And then dessert was served.  Some of the party had departed, some were smoking, others gambling, and a few still at table; some of the women danced, others slept.  The orchestra returned; the candles paled and others were lighted.  I recalled a supper of Petronius, where the lights went out around the drunken masters, and the slaves entered and stole the silver.  All the while songs were being sung in various parts of the room, and three Englishmen, three of those gloomy figures for whom the Continent is a hospital, kept up a most sinister ballad that must have been born of the fogs of their marshes.

“Come,” said I to Marco, “let us go.”

She arose and took my arm.

“To-morrow!” cried Desgenais to me, as we left the hall.

When approaching Marco’s house, my heart beat violently and I could not speak.  I could not understand such a woman; she seemed to experience neither desire nor disgust, and I could think of nothing but the fact that my hand was trembling and hers motionless.

Her room was, like her, sombre and voluptuous; it was dimly lighted by an alabaster lamp.  The chairs and sofa were as soft as beds, and there was everywhere suggestion of down and silk.  Upon entering I was struck with the strong odor of Turkish pastilles, not such as are sold here on the streets, but those of Constantinople, which are more powerful and more dangerous.  She rang, and a maid appeared.  She entered an alcove without a word, and a few minutes later I saw her leaning on her elbow in her habitual attitude of nonchalance.

I stood looking at her.  Strange to say, the more I admired her, the more beautiful I found her, the more rapidly I felt my desires subside.  I do not know whether it was some magnetic influence or her silence and listlessness.  I lay down on a sofa opposite the alcove, and the coldness of death settled on my soul.

The pulsation of the blood in the arteries is a sort of clock, the ticking of which can be heard only at night.  Man, free from exterior attractions, falls back upon himself; he hears himself live.  In spite of my fatigue I could not close my eyes; those of Marco were fixed on me; we looked at each other in silence, gently, so to speak.

“What are you doing there?” she asked.

She heaved a gentle sigh that was almost a plaint.

I turned my head and saw that the first gleams of morning light were shining through the window.

I arose and opened the window; a bright light penetrated every corner of the room.  The sky was clear.

I motioned to her to wait.  Considerations of prudence had led her to choose an apartment some distance from the centre of the city; perhaps she had other quarters, for she sometimes received a number of visitors.  Her lover’s friends sometimes visited her, and this room was doubtless only a petite maison; it overlooked the Luxembourg, the gardens of which extended as far as my eye could reach.