We had only to walk the length of the avenue, and we were at home. After the fir branches which carpeted the space in front of the lodge, we found the ground hard, and it crackled under our feet, for it was freezing. The night was not dark. In the depths of the sky, between the chestnut trees whose branches stood out black and bare, and the oaks with their dry, shrivelled leaves, shone thousands of stars, that almost touched each other, and seemed to be in motion like a swarm of bees. Certainly this sense of throbbing has remained in my memory. Have I since seen similar nights? Did I dream of that one? I do not know now. The cold was stinging. “Suppose we run?” I suggested. “Come,” she answered. She picked up the train of her wedding dress and darted off. Practice in the woods had made her agile, and I still see clearly before me this flight in the shadow, the bare trees, the lawn and the empty urns. Oh! it was a wonderful night, a holy night, when in the majestic silence I heard her two little shoes striking the ground. I stopped, and then at last I pursued her. She was the first to gain the arches of the cloister. Without doubt the apparent life in the sky had struck her too, for when I rejoined her, she pointed it out to me with these words: “There are no falling stars to-night. Do you still want something more?” “No, Raymonde,” I said. “Nothing more.” I might have added: “_Not even you_.” No, not even her! Beyond desire, I was experiencing that kind of love, which one enjoys in moments of ecstatic adoration, when the blood flows gently not to thwart the rush of the spirit, when life means sweetness, goodness, joy, light, serenity-- * * * “Let us go in,” I said, “you will catch cold.” “Listen,” she replied. The branches nearest to the cloister cracked with the frost. And from the forest, of which we could distinguish only a vague outline, a confused murmur came to us. “The night sings,” said I. “The night is praying,” she replied, and again she raised her head to the stars. “How many there are! How many there are!” She named some of the constellations. Cygnus, the most beautiful, appeared to be on the wing like a diamond-shaped flock of birds. I took Raymonde’s hand in mine so that she would look at me. “Now,” I said, “there is no one in the world but you and me. I shall love you all my life.” “Oh, no,” she replied, “that is not sufficient.” “What must you have?” “Our life--that is not enough. It will end. I wish a love which will never end. Never. Never.” “Is that possible?” “Of course, since there is Eternity.” At that moment her faith was contagious, enlarging and consecrating our love. * * *