I could have gone on looking at her all my life, without dreaming of addressing her. I did not observe the silence that had succeeded to the roar of the fountain, I do not even know whether I stood gazing at her for a moment or for an hour. It seemed to me of a sudden—as if I had always seen her, always known her—it was, perhaps, because I was living a century in a moment’s space.
She was the first to speak. I heard but could not understand all at once, for the silvery tones of her voice, like her supernatural beauty, served to complete the illusion.
I listened as if to music, without seeking to attach any particular sense to her words.
At last I made an effort to shake off this stupor and heard her ask if I could see her. I know not what I answered, for she added:
“Under what guise dost thou behold me?”
It was only then that I remarked she addressed me as “thou.” I felt myself drawn to reply in the same fashion, for if she spoke to me en reine, I addressed her as a divinity.
“I see thee,” I replied, “as a being to whom naught upon this earth can compare.”
It seemed to me that she blushed, for my eyes were becoming accustomed to the sea-green light which inundated her figure. I beheld her, white as a lily, with the fresh tint of youth upon her cheek, a melancholy smile added to her charms.
“What do you see extraordinary in me?” said she.
“Beauty,” I replied, briefly. I was too much moved to add more.