Mist is gradually falling. Now we can only see white things clearly—the new parts of houses, the walls, the high road, joined to the other one by footpaths which straggle through the dark fields, the big white stones, tranquil as sheep, and the horse-pond, whose gleam amid the far obscurity imitates whiteness in unexpected fashion. Then we can only see light things—the stains of faces and hands, those faces which see each other in the gloom longer than is logical and exceed themselves.
Pervaded by a sort of serious musing, we turn back into the room and sit down, I on the edge of the bed, she on a chair in front of the open window, in the center of the pearly sky.
Her thoughts are the same as mine, for she turns her face to me and says:
"And ourselves."
* * * * * *
She sighs for the thought she has. She would like to be silent, but she must speak.
"We don't love each other any more," she says, embarrassed by the greatness of the things she utters; "but we did once, and I want to see our love again."
She gets up, opens the wardrobe, and sits down again in the same place with a box in her hands. She says:
"There it is. Those are our letters."
"Our letters, our beautiful letters!" she goes on. "I could really say they're more beautiful than all others. We know them by heart—but would you like us to read them again? You read them—there's still light enough—and let me see how happy we've been."