“Or you are tired?”
“No.”
“Ah! then it is the ennui of love?”
With these words she became serious, for in spite of herself, in speaking of love, her Italian heart beat the faster.
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?”