Eva covered her eyes with her hands, and sang softly and with an expression on her lips that was half pain and half archness: “‘Où sont nos amoureuses? Elles sont au tombeau, Dans un séjour plus beau Elles sont heureuses. Elles sont près des anges Au fond du ciel bleu, Où elles chantent les louanges De la Mère de Dieu.’ “It touched my very soul, and for a minute I hated you. Ah, how much beauty of feeling streams from human hearts, and finds no vessel to receive it!” Suddenly she arose, and said with a burning glance: “Fyodor Szilaghin is here.” Christian went to the window. “It is raining,” he said. Thereupon Eva left the room, singing with a sob in her throat: “Où sont nos amoureuses? Elles sont au tombeau.” That evening they were walking down the beach. “I met Mlle. Gamaleja,” Eva told him. “Fyodor Szilaghin introduced her to me. She is a Tartar and his mistress. Her beauty is like that of a venomous serpent, and as strange as the landscape of a wild dream. There was a silent challenge in her attitude to me, and a silent combat arose between us. We talked about the diary of Marie Bashkirtseff. She said that such creatures should be strangled at birth. But I see from your expression, dear man, that you have never heard of Marie Bashkirtseff. Well, she was one of those women who are born a century before their time and wither away like flowers in February.” Christian did not answer. He could not help thinking of the faces of the dead fishermen which he had seen the night before. “Mlle. Gamaleja was in London recently and brought me a message from the Grand Duke,” Eva continued; “he’ll be here in another week.” Christian was still silent. Twelve women and nineteen children had stood about the dead men. They had all been scantily clad and absorbed in their icy grief. They walked up the beach and moved farther away from the tumult of the waves. Eva said: “Why don’t you laugh? Have you forgotten how?” The question was like a cry. Christian said nothing. “To-morrow,” she remarked swiftly, and caught her veil which was fluttering in the breeze, “to-morrow there’s a village fair at Dudzeele. Come with me to Dudzeele. Pulcinello will be there. We will laugh, Christian, laugh!”