The dream was interrupted in this wise. On a certain stormy evening the abbé had laid down his book. The chevalier reclined in his chair, gulping in stentorous slumber, while Gabrielle sat listening to the saddest sound in the world--the soughing of the winter wind. At her feet lay Pharamond with flushed face, excited by the story he had been reading--that of Francesca da Rimini.
"That pig will die in a fit," he remarked presently, with a glance of scorn at his brother, who lay with his back to them in gurgling unconsciousness; "and the sooner the better, for then we shall be alone."
"That day they read no more!" Ah me, what a tale it is, old as the hills but ever new!
A silence. Gabrielle too was reflecting on the story of Francesca.
"An all-devouring consuming love. Tell me, Gabrielle, is it a curse or a blessing?"
"That depends," replied the other, slowly, "whether it be pure or not. The condition of real love implies abnegation of self in favour of the one who is loved."
"Too cold a view of it for me," returned the abbé. "I belong to the south, where it burns and scorches. I believe that illicit love is best. Poor Gabrielle! Ignorant sleeping princess, yet awaiting the awakening kiss! How strange, that one so beautiful should never have felt the divine breath! Clovis could not love. He is too selfish. With that brute snoring there, the god-like sentiment rises no higher than the lust of the uncultured savage."
Tears welled into the eyes of Gabrielle. "I take it," she murmured, "that the reason love is so often a curse lies in its inequality, since it is given to no couple to love with equal fervour."
Under influence of the reading and of the abbé's words, old yearnings had sprung newly into life again which she had deemed dead. Alas! If the affection of Clovis had been as true and staunch as hers, how unclouded a career would have been theirs. Illicit love, he had dared to say--this insidious Pharamond! No; never--never that! She sighed, and with chin on hand, gazed into the fire. It was mere idle prate. Men of a poetic turn run into such extremes.
How beautiful she looked in the warm fitful glow in a plain sacque of palest rose, her hair loosely gathered to display to advantage the poise of the graceful head. What a perfect neck and shoulder, and how exquisitely modelled an arm. One hand lay carelessly upon her lap. It was as though he saw that shapely arm for the first time. The blood surging to his brain, the abbé bent down and impressed a burning kiss on it.