“There are no falling stars to-night. Do you still want something more?”
“No, Raymonde,” I said. “Nothing more.”
I might have added: “Not even you.” No, not even her! Beyond desire, I was experiencing that kind of love, which one enjoys in moments of ecstatic adoration, when the blood flows gently not to thwart the rush of the spirit, when life means sweetness, goodness, joy, light, serenity—
* * *
“Let us go in,” I said, “you will catch cold.”
“Listen,” she replied.
The branches nearest to the cloister cracked with the frost. And from the forest, of which we could distinguish only a vague outline, a confused murmur came to us.
“The night sings,” said I.
“The night is praying,” she replied, and again she raised her head to the stars.
“How many there are! How many there are!”