"It was during Demetrius's absence," he remembered again.
"Do you smell that perfume, George?" said Christine. "I will gather a bouquet."
The air, impregnated with a warm humidity, and charged with heavy perfumes, disposed one to indolence. The bunches of lilac, the orange-blossom, the roses, thyme, marjoram, sweet basil, myrtle—all their essences combined to form one single essence, delicate yet powerful.
All at once, Christine asked:
"Why are you so thoughtful?"
The perfume had just aroused in George a great tumult, a furious resurrection of all his passion, a desire for Hippolyte which had routed every other sentiment, a thousand recollections of sensual delights which coursed through his veins.
Smiling and hesitating, Christine added:
"You are thinking—of her?"
"Ah! it is true, you know," said George, reddening suddenly under his sister's indulgent gaze.
He remembered he had spoken to her of Hippolyte the previous autumn, in September, at the time he stayed at her house at Torricelle di Sarsa, on the seacoast.