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not rather eat like reddest rust into every shining hour, ay,
like frost nip unto death every fruitful sentiment of the
soul and blight it down to its deepest roots?”
He sprang up from his seat and gesticulated down at her
as he spoke. “And you ask why they are called ‘the
melancholy company,’ when every delight, in the instant you
grasp it, sheds its slough in a trice and becomes disgust,
when all mirth is but the last woeful gasp of joy, when all
beauty is beauty that passes, and all happiness is happiness
that bursts like the bubble!”
He began to walk up and down in front of her.
“So it is this that leads your thoughts to the convent?”
asked Marie, and looked down with a smile.
“It is so indeed, madam. Many a time have I fancied
myself confined in a lonely cell or imprisoned in a high
tower, sitting alone at my window, watching the light fade
and the darkness well out, while the solitude, silent and
calm and strong, has grown up around my soul and covered
it like plants of mandrake pouring their drowsy juices in
my blood. Ah, but I know full well that it is naught but an
empty conceit; never could the solitude gain power over
me! I should long like fire and leaping flame for life and
what belongs to life—long till I lost my senses! But you
understand nothing of all this I am prating. Let us go,
ma chère! The rain is upon us; the wind is laid.”
“Ah, no, the clouds are lifting. See the rim of light all
around the heavens!”
“Ay, lifting and lowering.”
“I say no,” declared Marie, rising.
“I swear yes, with all deference.”
Marie ran down the hill. “Man’s mind is his kingdom.
Come, now, down into yours!”
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