She began to laugh, and Desgenais, who could see us from his table, joined her. Before her was a large crystal glass, cut in the shape of a chalice, which reflected the glittering lights on its thousand sparkling facets, shining like the prism and revealing the seven colors of the rainbow. She listlessly extended her arm and filled it to the brim with Cyprian and a sweetened Oriental wine which I afterward found so bitter on the deserted Lido. "Here," she said, presenting it to me, "_per voi, bambino mio_." "For you and for me," I said, presenting her my glass in turn. She moistened her lips while I emptied my glass, unable to conceal the sadness she seemed to read in my eyes. "Is it not good?" she asked. "No," I replied. "Perhaps your head aches?" "No." "Or you are tired?" "No." "Ah! then it is the ennui of love?" With these words she became serious, for in spite of herself, in speaking of love, her Italian heart beat the faster. A scene of folly ensued. Heads were becoming heated, cheeks were assuming that purple hue with which wine colors the face as though to prevent shame from appearing there; a confused murmur like to that of a rising sea could be heard all over the room, here and there eyes would become inflamed, then fixed and empty; I know not what wind stirred above this drunkenness. A woman rose, as in a tranquil sea the first wave that feels the tempest's breath, and rises to announce it; she makes a sign with her hand to command silence, empties her glass at a gulp, and with the same movement undoes her hair, which falls in shining tresses over her shoulders; she opens her mouth as though to start a drinking song; her eyes were half closed. She breathed with an effort; twice a harsh sound came from her throat; a mortal pallor overspread her features and she dropped into her chair. Then came an uproar which lasted an hour. It was impossible to distinguish anything, either laughter, songs or cries. "What do you think of it?" asked Desgenais. "Nothing," I replied. "I have stopped my ears and am looking at it." In the midst of that bacchanal the beautiful Marco remained mute, drinking nothing and leaning quietly on her bare arm. She seemed neither astonished nor affected by it. "Do you not wish to do as they?" I asked. "You have just offered me Cyprian wine; why do you not drink some yourself?" With these words I poured out a large glass full to the brim. She raised it to her lips, and then placed it on the table and resumed her listless attitude. The more I studied that Marco, the more singular she appeared; she took pleasure in nothing and did not seem to be annoyed by anything. It appeared as difficult to anger her as to please her; she did what was asked of her, but no more. I thought of the genius of eternal repose, and I imagined that if that pale statue should become somnambulant it would resemble Marco.