No Englishwoman would have thought of the details which made the Feast of
the Full Moon so wonderful in Paul's eyes. It savoured rather of other
centuries and the days of Imperial Rome, and indeed, had his lady been one
of Britain's daughters, he too might have found it a little _bizarre_. As
it was, it was all in the note--the exotic note of Venice and her spells.
The lady had gone to her room when he woke on the loggia, and he had only
time to dress before the appointed moment when he was to meet her in the
little salon.
She was seated on the old Venetian chair she had bought in Lucerne when
Paul entered--the most radiant vision he had yet seen. Her garment was
pale-green gauze. It seemed to cling in misty folds round her exquisite
shape; it was clasped with pearls; the most magnificent ones hung in a row
round her throat and fell from her ears. A diadem confined her glorious
hair, which descended in the two long strands twisted with chains of
emeralds and diamonds. Her whole personality seemed breathing magnificence
and panther-like grace. And her eyes glowed with passion, and mystery, and
force.
Paul knelt like a courtier, and kissed her hand. Then he led her to their
feast.
Dmitry raised the curtain of the loggia door as they approached, and what a
sight met Paul's view!
The whole place had been converted into a bower of roses. The walls were
entirely covered with them. A great couch of deepest red ones was at one
side, fixed in such masses as to be quite resisting and firm. From the roof
chains of roses hung, concealing small lights--while from above the screen
of lilac-bushes in full bloom the moon in all her glory mingled with the
rose-shaded lamps and cast a glamour and unreality over the whole.
The dinner was laid on a table in the centre, and the table was covered
with tuberoses and stephanotis, surrounding the cupid fountain of perfume.
The scent of all these flowers! And the warm summer night! No wonder Paul's
senses quivered with exaltation. No wonder his head swam.
They had scarcely been seated when from the great salon, whose open doors
were hidden by falling trellises of roses, there came the exquisite sounds
of violins, and a boy's plaintive voice. A concert of all sweet airs played
softly to further excite the sense. Paul had not thought such musicians
could be obtained in Venice, and guessed, and rightly, that, like the cook
and the artist who had designed it, they hailed from Paris, to beautify
this night.
Throughout the repast his lady bewildered him with her wild fascination.
Never before had she seemed to collect all her moods into one subtle whole,
cemented together by passionate love. It truly was a night of the gods, and
the exaltation of Paul's spirit had reached its zenith.
"My Paul," she said, when at last only the rare fruits and the golden wine
remained, and they were quite alone--even the musicians had retired, and
their airs floated up from a gondola below. "My Paul, I want you never to
forget this night--never to think of me but as gloriously happy, clasped in
your arms amid the roses. And see, we must drink once more together of our
wedding wine, and complete our souls' delight."
An eloquence seemed to come to Paul and loosen his tongue, so that he
whispered back paeans of worship in language as fine as her own. And the
moon flooded the loggia with her light, and the roses gave forth their
scent. It was the supreme effort of art and nature to cover them with
glorious joy.
"My darling one," the lady whispered in his ear, as she lay in his arms on
the couch of roses, crushed deep and half buried in their velvet leaves,
"this is our souls' wedding. In life and in death they can never part
more."
* * * * *
Dawn was creeping through the orchid blinds of their sleeping chamber when
this strange Queen disengaged herself from her lover's embrace, and bent
over him, kissing his young curved lips. He stirred not--the languor of
utter prostration was upon him, and held him in its grasp. In the uncertain
light his sleep looked pale as death.
The lady gazed at him, an anguish too deep for tears in her eyes. For was
not this the end--the very end? Fierce, dry sobs shook her. There was
something terrible and tigerish in her grief. And yet her will made her
not linger--there was still one thing to do.
She rose and turned to the writing-table by the window, then drawing the
blind aside a little she began rapidly to write. When she had finished,
without reading the missive over, she went and placed it with a flat
leather jewel-case on her pillow beside Paul. And soon she commenced a
madness of farewells--all restrained and gentle for fear he should awake.
"My love, my love," she wailed between her kisses, "God keep you
safe--though He may never bring you back to me."
Then with a wild, strangled sob, she fled from the room.