Slowly she raised her white gauze veil over the rim of her hat, showing her graceful, melancholy face, enchanting in every line, from the thoughtful, proud, and yet sweet eyes, to the expressively sorrowful and fresh mouth; showing the face which love had exalted to an invincible beauty, which love had deserted, leaving there all the serene sadness of things long dead, and all the proud melancholy of a brief, too brief, passion. Marco looked at the face without its veil, and she looked at him with her expression of calm sadness, finding in him singularly the same expression—a death in life, a love dead.
“Weggis,” he murmured, with melancholy, while the boat drew further away towards Lucerne.
“Weggis,” she murmured, with ever greater melancholy.
The image of the little flower-laden spot, where they had lodged modestly one very hot summer in passionate solitude, seemed far away amidst the autumn mists. It grew distant, and disappeared among the things of the past, of time, and of space, like their love had vanished. The gloaming was already descending to render the clouds browner and closer; already a colder and more penetrating breath of air struck the two travellers and caused them to shudder. A line of lights, lit for the approaching evening, stretched itself in the background, indicating the quay-side of Lucerne, and in the twilight the massive and bizarre buildings of hotels and villas grew whiter. Side by side the two travellers looked at the lights, and mechanically rose from their place to leave the Vierwaldstettersee, which had already reached the pier. The conductor of the omnibus of the Hôtel National took Marco’s luggage, and after an exchange of words in a low voice threw it on to the omnibus and drove off with it. The two travellers remained on a bench, bathed in moisture, silently seized by all that was in their souls. They were undecided and rather confused. At last Maria exclaimed, making an attempt to get away, “Good-night, Marco.”
“Where are you going?” he asked sadly and anxiously.
“Up there;” and she pointed to a little hill with her finger.
“Where then?”
“To Sonnenberg; I have been there for two weeks,” she added.
“Won’t you stay a little with me?” he begged anxiously.
“O Marco, don’t ask that!” she exclaimed, turning her head.