“Look at the green of this emerald, Jean.”
“I prefer the green of the meadows.”
“And the bright blue of this sapphire.”
“It will not compare with the blue of the sky.”
“Look at these rubies.”
“I prefer blood.”
“And these pearls.”
“I would rather see tears.”
“Well, be content—for I shed them for you.”
Amused with their sentimental sword-play they exchanged smiles as two fencers exchange salutes. Isabelle inhaled life greedily as if it were a bouquet of tuberoses. Her bosom rose and fell under her bodice of soft silk, which gave a hint of the firm contours. Jean could follow the fine blue veins which ran over the white skin and lost themselves under the silk. He pictured through the cunning draperies that faultless body, fit pendant to her head with the queenly profile, crowned by jet black hair. He had only to stoop to pluck this human flower, this rare orchid in the flesh. In the stem which bent towards him, in the unfolding of the petals, in the quivering from head to foot as before the warm evening breeze, he saw her offer of herself. Why should he not pluck? Did he not know the value of beauty, the value of youth, which enhances joy so much? But had he not known this he would not have worn that expression of fervent melancholy in the presence of joy.