“You are very prompt,” he said, “Marco is no ordinary woman. She was almost the wife of M. de------, ambassador to Milan. One of his friends brought her here. Yet,” he added, “you may rest assured I shall speak to her. We shall not allow you to die so long as there is any hope for you or any resource left untried. It is possible that she will remain to supper.” He left me, and I was alarmed to see him approach her. But they were soon lost in the crowd. “Is it possible,” I murmured; “have I come to this? Oh! heavens! is this what I am going to love? But after all,” I thought, “my senses have spoken, but not my heart.” Thus I tried to calm myself. A few minutes later Desgenais tapped me on the shoulder. “We shall go to supper at once,” said he. “You will give your arm to Marco.” “Listen,” I said; “I hardly know what I am experiencing. It seems to me I see limping Vulcan covering Venus with kisses while his beard smokes with the fumes of the forge. He fixes his staring eyes on the dazzling skin of his prey. His happiness in the possession of his prize makes him laugh for joy, and at the same time shudder with happiness, and then he remembers his father, Jupiter, seated on high among the gods.” Desgenais looked at me but made no reply; taking me by the arm he led me away. “I am tired,” he said, “and I am sad; this noise wearies me. Let us go to supper, that will refresh us.” The supper was splendid, but I could not touch it. “What is the matter with you?” asked Marco. I sat like a statue, making no reply and looking at her from head to foot with amazement. 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.