Renaud did not hear her. He saw.—He saw the gipsy as plainly as if she were there before him, even more plainly. In the darkness of the night, her body, brown as before, seemed luminous, like an opaque substance giving forth a pale light. Her naked figure, obscure and bright at the same time, was standing motionless before his eyes—then it moved—and he fancied that he saw the gipsy bathing in the phosphorescent water peculiar to the summer months,—when swimmers cause a cold, liquid light to dart hither and thither through the dark water, following and marking the outlines of their forms, from which it seems to radiate.
“Have I the fever?” he said to himself.
As if in answer to the unspoken question, Livette took his hand. She felt it from wrist to finger-ends, to see if it were dry and hot.
“Yes,” said she, “you must look out; father was right, you have a touch of fever. Come up and find the medicine.”
“Come on,” said he, glad of the diversion.
“Come,” she repeated, “but move softly: grandma has fallen asleep!”
The old lady was asleep, as she said. She was leaning against the wall, perfectly motionless. The white handkerchief, tied in the Arlesian fashion, instead of covering her chignon only, enveloped almost her whole head, allowing two tufts of coarse, white hair, all in disorder, to protrude, like mist, on each side of her face.
She was asleep, her mouth partly open, a ray of light shining through upon her teeth, which were still beautiful.
They left her there.