At her gentle words my heart beat yet more violently.
With hungry eyes I gazed and gazed, clothing her once more in the beauty of long past days. At length I said:
“Madame, give me your hand.”
Pressing it to my lips, my heart turned to water within me, the world sank away, a long and blessed silence brooded over us.
“Dare I hope,” I murmured, “that I may write to you? That, at long distant intervals, I may even see you?”
“Oh, certainly; but I am leaving Lyons soon to live with my son who, after his marriage, is to settle in Geneva.”
I rose, not daring to stay longer. She came with me to the door, saying, “Good-bye, M. Berlioz, good-bye. I am more grateful than I can tell you for your long and sweet memory of me.”
Once more I bent over her hand, pressing it to my burning forehead, then tore myself away but only to wander, aimlessly and feverishly, near her dwelling.
As I watched the swirling Rhone rush under the Pont Morand, M. Strakosch, brother-in-law of Adelina Patti, came up to me.
“You!” he cried, “Good-luck! Adelina will be so glad to see you. She is singing to-morrow in the Barbiere; will you have a box?”