Fra Balthasar sat on a stool inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ivory. An embroidery frame served him as an easel. The man was living under the many-constellationed vault of beauty. All the scent and floweriness of the room played on his brain; all the wealth of it pandered to his art; all the woman's splendour made molten wax of his being.
As he painted she sang to him, an old lay of Arthurian love, so that he might catch the music in her eyes, and watch the deep notes gathering in her throat. He saw her bosom sway beneath her lace, saw the inimitable roundness of her arms. Often his brush lingered. He might gaze upon the woman as he would, drink her beauty like so much violet wine, open his soul to the opulent summer of her power. His heart was in a sunset mood; he lived the life of a poet.
"And the green spring grew subtle," sang the dame,
"With song of birds and laughter, and the woods
Were white for maying. So fair Guinivere
Loosed her long hair like rivulets of gold
That stream from the broad casement of the dawn.
And her sweet mouth was like one lovely rose,
And her white bosom like a bowl of flowers;
So wandered she with Launcelot, while the wind
Blew her long tresses to him, and her eyes
Were as the tender azure of the night."
Of such things sang Duessa, while the friar spread his colours.
And then she questioned him.
"Love you the old legends, Balthasar?"
"Madame, as I love life."
"Ah! they could love in those old days."
"Madame, men can love even now."
She put her lute aside, and knelt upon the couch before the window, with her elbows on the cushioned sill. Her silks swept close upon her shapely back, her shoulders gleamed under her purple hair. In the west the world grew red; the crimson kisses of the sunset poured upon the ecstasied green woods. The mere was flaked with a myriad amber scales. The meadows broidered their broad laps with cowslips, as with dust of gold.