And he added:
“Even in your absence I can not quit Paris. It would be terrible for me to live in countries that do not know you. A sky, mountains, trees, fountains, statues which do not know how to talk of you would have nothing to say to me.”
While he was dressing she turned the leaves of a book which she had found on the table. It was The Arabian Nights. Romantic engravings displayed here and there in the text grand viziers, sultanas, black tunics, bazaars, and caravans.
She asked:
“The Arabian Nights-does that amuse you?”
“A great deal,” he replied, tying his cravat. “I believe as much as I wish in these Arabian princes whose legs become black marble, and in these women of the harem who wander at night in cemeteries. These tales give me pleasant dreams which make me forget life. Last night I went to bed in sadness and read the history of the Three Calendars.”
She said, with a little bitterness:
“You are trying to forget. I would not consent for anything in the world to lose the memory of a pain which came to me from you.”
They went down together to the street. She was to take a carriage a little farther on and precede him at her house by a few minutes.
“My husband expects you to breakfast.”