C’est l’amour tout simple, et pas autre chose.
“C’est l’amour puissant, c’est l’amour vermeil.
Je serai le flot, tu seras la dune,
Tu seras la terre, et moi le soleil,
Et cela vaut mieux que leur clair de lune.”
Gretchen pretended to be frightened, but Irene glanced mutely at Gzhatski, and they both thought “It is true!” The wine, the supper, the music, had affected them; they spoke little, looked at each other mysteriously, and, all unconsciously, sighed as deeply as the young German.
They left the restaurant, overcome with tenderness, pressing close to each other, and softly humming the passionate, recently-heard melodies that still echoed in their ears. The night was dark and warm and sultry. They had not far to go. Their hotel gleamed white, silent, and ghostly, between the trees. The door leading into the garden was ajar, and a streak of light fell across the path. As they approached they saw that not everyone had yet retired for the night. The dark beauty of the afternoon’s incident was standing motionless on the veranda, leaning her elbow on the balustrade, as though waiting for someone. She had taken off her enormous hat, and had thrown a black lace shawl over her hair. Between her teeth she held a red rose. Gzhatski passed without looking at her, and her glance followed him with a sarcastic smile.
“She looks like Carmen,” said Irene. “Carmen in the first act, when she is tempting Don José.”
Sergei Grigorievitch quite unexpectedly flared up. “Carmen!” he exclaimed in a white rage. “Carmen! Can you think of any more poetical comparisons? She is not Carmen, but simply a ⸺!”