"Will you really take me to the Euganean hills in the spring?"
"Yes, Foscarina, I should like to do so."
"Spring is so far-away!"
"Life can still be sweet."
"We are living in a dream."
"Look at Orpheus with his lyre, all dressed in lichens."
"Ah, what a land of dreams! No one comes here any more. Grass, grass everywhere! There is not a single human footstep."
"Deucalion with his stones, Ganymede with his eagle, Diana with her stag—all the gods of mythology."
"How many statues! But these, at least, are not in exile. The ancient hornbeams still protect them."
"Here strolled Maria Luisa di Parma, between the King and the favorite. From time to time she would pause to listen to the click of the blades that cut the hornbeams to form arches. She would let fall her handkerchief, perfumed with jessamine, and Don Manuel Godoï would pick it up with a graceful gesture, hiding the pain he suffered when he stooped—a souvenir of the outrages he had endured at the hands of the mob in the streets of Aranjuez. How warm the sun was, and how excellent the snuff in its enameled box, when the King said with a smile: 'Certainly, our dear Bonaparte is not so well off at Saint Helena as we are here.' But the demon of power, of struggle, and of passion was still alive in the Queen's heart. Look at those red roses!"