Paul asked no better gift of fate. Venice he had always longed to see, and now to see it with her! Ah! the very thought was ecstasy to him, and made the blood bound in his veins. "When, when, my darling?" he asked. "Tomorrow? When?" "To-day is Friday," she said. "One must give Dmitry time to make the arrangements and take a palace for us. Shall we say Sunday, Paul? I shall go on Sunday, and you can follow the next day--so by Tuesday evening we shall be together again, not to part until--the end." "The end?" said Paul, with sinking heart. "Sweetheart," she whispered, while she drew his face down to hers, "think nothing evil. I said the end--but fate alone knows when that must be. Do not let us force her hand by speculating about it. Remember always to live while we may." And Paul was more or less comforted, but in moments of silence all through the day he seemed to hear the echo of the words--The End. CHAPTER XV It was a beautiful apartment that Dmitry had found for them on the Grand Canal in Venice, in an old palace looking southwest. A convenient door in a side canal cloaked the exit and entry of its inhabitants from curious eyes--had there been any to indulge in curiosity; but in Venice there is a good deal of the feeling of live and let live, and the _dolce far niente_ of the life is not conducive to an over-anxious interest in the doings of one's neighbours. Money and intelligence can achieve a number of things in a short space of time, and Dmitry had had both at his command, so everything, including a _chef_ from Paris and a retinue of Italian servants, was ready when on the Tuesday evening Paul arrived at the station. What a wonderland it seemed to him, Venice! A wonderland where was awaiting him his heart's delight--more passionately desired than ever after three days of total abstinence. As after the Friday afternoon he had spent more or less in hiding in the terrace-room, his lady had judged it wiser for him not to come at all to Lucerne, and on the Saturday had met him at a quiet part of the shore of the lake, beyond the landing-steps of the _funiculaire,_ and for a few short hours they had cruised about on the blue waters--but her sweetest tenderness and ready wit had not been able entirely to eliminate the feeling of unrest which troubled them. And then there were the nights, the miserable evenings and nights of separation. On the Sunday she had departed to Venice, and after she had gone, Paul had returned for one day to Lucerne, leaving again on the Monday, apparently as unacquainted with Madame Zalenska as he had been the first night of his arrival.