“Marcel, Marcel! Who tells you that is the wind among the leaves? Who tells you that we are alone? Are you, then, after all, one of those commonplace souls which have failed to discern any of the mysterious portents of the world unseen?”
And as he questioned her with a glance that was all bewilderment—
“Monsieur Germain,” she said, “be so kind as to go upstairs to my room. You will find a little book on the table, and bring it to me....”
He obeyed. All the while he was absent the young widow gazed at the dusky foliage shivering in the night wind. He returned with a little gilt-edged volume.
“The Idylls of Gesner; yes, that is it,” said Sophie. “Open the book at the place where the marker lies, and, if your eyes are good enough to read by moonlight, read.”
He read these words:
“Ah! Often will my soul come to hover around you; often when, inflamed by a noble and sublime thought, you are meditating in solitude, a light breath will brush your cheek: at such a moment may your soul be conscious of a gladdening thrill!...”
She stopped him.
“Now do you understand, Marcel, that we are never alone, and that there are words to which I can never listen so long as a breath blown landward from the sea shall set in motion the leaves of the oaks.”
The voices of the two older men drew near.