"Qua boir soit—qua boir soit," repeated Violante softly.
The duet rose, full and sweet and clear, with passionate undertones. Slowly it died away, calling to itself across the lighted water.
The two men applauded eagerly. "Bella!" murmured Giorgione. "Once more!—Bella!" He clapped his hands.
Again the music rose. Once the eyes of the singers met—a long, slow look. The time quickened a little, and the music deepened.
Titian sat watching them, his head in its velvet cap, thrown back against the cushions, his lips smiling dreamily. His eye strayed over the voluptuous figure at his side—the snowy tunic and the ruby-red bodice and skirt. He knew the figure well, the red-gold hair and wondrous eyes. But a new look had come into them—something tender, almost sweet.
He leaned forward as the music ceased. "You shall pose for me," he said under his breath. "I want you for the Duke's picture."
She nodded slightly, her bosom rising and falling.
Giorgione leaned forward, smiling.
"What is that?" he asked. His eyes rested tenderly on the flushed face and the full lips of his wife. "What is it you say?"
"I want her for Bacchante," said Titian, "for the Duke's picture." He had not removed his eyes from her face.