"What do you know? Could you, yourself, promise me, on your life, that the morrows will not bring me the disillusion of your past days? Will you make such a promise?"
The sun had had its day, and the sky, by slow diminutions, darkened. Red, green and yellow fires blazed on the stream.
Languid under its trappings, lightly rocked by the eddy, a slow bark drew near and anchored at the quay. The stones were all covered with heavy rugs, as were the granite steps and the pavement to the foot-path where the carriage stopped. Torch carriers lined the road to the bark: by their flickering flames, the golds and purples of the draperies brightened and the water of the river assumed the color of garnets and topazes.
They were alone. Holding each other's hand, they walked in silence, both garbed in black and resembling shadows.
When they stepped on the plank, they looked and smiled at each other. They departed alone, they departed together, and yet each saw in the other's eye the melancholy of voyagers.
The bark put to sea, the torches were extinguished: in the night there was again but one lantern on the water of the stream.
"Yes," said Entragues.
Sixtine shuddered.
"Yes," repeated Entragues, "if you love me!"
Sixtine continued: