From the projection of the architrave, below the cornice, hung a group of nests. The swallows were coming and going, with incessant activity. But below, the calm of the garden was so profound, the top of the cypress was so motionless, that the sounds of the wings, these flights, these cries, displeased me, tired me. Since, in this tranquil light, everything hid itself, I sought repose, a long period of silence, in order to taste in plenitude the suavity of the hour and the isolation.
"Are the nightingales always there?" I asked, pointing to the top of the venerable tree.
"Who knows? Perhaps."
"They sing at night. Would you not like to hear them again?"
"But at what time will Federico come back?"
"Let us hope, late."
"Oh, yes! late, very late," she cried, with such warm sincerity of hope that it caused me a thrill of joy.
"Are you happy?" I asked her, and I sought the answer in her eyes.
"Yes, I am happy," she answered, lowering her eyelids.
"You know that I love only you, that I am yours forever?"