A scene of folly ensued. Heads were becoming heated, cheeks were assuming that purple hue with which wine suffuses the face as if to prevent shame 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 rises, as in a tranquil sea the first wave that feels the tempest’s breath foams up 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 if to start a drinking-song; her eyes are half closed. She breathes with an effort; twice a harsh sound comes from her throat; a mortal pallor overspreads her features and she drops 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 this Bacchanalian orgy 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. “Are you good or bad?” I asked. “Are you sad or gay? Are you loved? Do you wish to beloved? Are you fond of money, of pleasure, of what? Horses, the country, balls? What pleases you? Of what are you dreaming?” To all these questions the same smile on her part, a smile that expressed neither joy nor sorrow, but which seemed to say, “What does it matter?” and nothing more. I held my lips to hers; she gave me a listless kiss and then passed her handkerchief over her mouth. “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!”