They were in the deepest part of the gloomy wood, like an immense tomb, amidst the thousand bronze candelabra, which seemed to have been lit for something great that was dead.
* * * * * * * *
Marco entered the room where Maria was waiting for him, reading a book. She lifted her eyes with a slightly melancholy smile.
“...m’aimes?” he asked in a puerile way, in French.
“...t’aime,” she replied colourlessly.
He kissed her, and she returned the kiss.
“...toujours?” she asked. “...toujours,” he replied.
Their words and actions were the same as of a former time, which were born again from the memory of their senses, re-born in an exterior, strange form to them. Their souls were full of inconsolable regret, their hearts of inconsolable grief.