movement.
"We cannot deny the fact," the chemist replied.

"Pshaw! those gentlemen the doctrinaires have invented a nebulous
aphorism for our consolation--Stupid as a fact."

"Your aphorism," said the chemist, "seems to me as a fact very
stupid."

They began to laugh, and went off to dine like folk for whom a miracle
is nothing more than a phenomenon.

Valentin reached his own house shivering with rage and consumed with
anger. He had no more faith in anything. Conflicting thoughts shifted

and surged to and fro in his brain, as is the case with every man
brought face to face with an inconceivable fact. He had readily

believed in some hidden flaw in Spieghalter's apparatus; he had not
been surprised by the incompetence and failure of science and of fire;

but the flexibility of the skin as he handled it, taken with its
stubbornness when all means of destruction that man possesses had been

brought to bear upon it in vain--these things terrified him. The
incontrovertible fact made him dizzy.

"I am mad," he muttered. "I have had no food since the morning, and
yet I am neither hungry nor thirsty, and there is a fire in my breast

that burns me."
He put back the skin in the frame where it had been enclosed but

lately, drew a line in red ink about the actual configuration of the
talisman, and seated himself in his armchair.

"Eight o'clock already!" he exclaimed. "To-day has gone like a dream."
He leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair, propped his head with his

left hand, and so remained, lost in secret dark reflections and
consuming thoughts that men condemned to die bear away with them.

"O Pauline!" he cried. "Poor child! there are gulfs that love can
never traverse, despite the strength of his wings."

Just then he very distinctly heard a smothered sigh, and knew by one
of the most tender privileges of passionate" target="_blank" title="a.易动情的；易怒的">passionate love that it was Pauline's

breathing.
"That is my death warrant," he said to himself. "If she were there, I

should wish to die in her arms."
A burst of gleeful and heartylaughter made him turn his face towards

the bed; he saw Pauline's face through the transparent curtains,
smiling like a child for gladness over a successful piece of mischief.

Her pretty hair fell over her shoulders in countless curls; she looked
like a Bengal rose upon a pile of white roses.

"I cajoled Jonathan," said she. "Doesn't the bed belong to me, to me
who am your wife? Don't scold me, darling; I only wanted to surprise

you, to sleep beside you. Forgive me for my freak."
She sprang out of bed like a kitten, showed herself gleaming in her

lawn raiment, and sat down on Raphael's knee.
"Love, what gulf were you talking about?" she said, with an anxious

expression apparent upon her face.
"Death."

"You hurt me," she answered. "There are some thoughts upon which we,
poor women that we are, cannot dwell; they are death to us. Is it

strength of love in us, or lack of courage? I cannot tell. Death does
not frighten me," she began again, laughingly. "To die with you, both

together, to-morrow morning, in one last embrace, would be joy. It
seems to me that even then I should have lived more than a hundred

years. What does the number of days matter if we have spent a whole
lifetime of peace and love in one night, in one hour?"

"You are right; Heaven is speaking through that pretty mouth of yours.
Grant that I may kiss you, and let us die," said Raphael.

"Then let us die," she said, laughing.
Towards nine o'clock in the morning the daylight streamed through the

chinks of the window shutters. Obscured somewhat by the muslin
curtains, it yet sufficed to show clearly the rich colors of the

carpet, the silks and furniture of the room, where the two lovers were
lying asleep. The gilding sparkled here and there. A ray of sunshine

fell and faded upon the soft down quilt that the freaks of live had
thrown to the ground. The outlines of Pauline's dress, hanging from a

cheval glass, appeared like a shadowy ghost. Her dainty shoes had been
left at a distance from the bed. A nightingale came to perch upon the

sill; its trills repeated over again, and the sounds of its wings
suddenly shaken out for flight, awoke Raphael.

"For me to die," he said, following out a thought begun in his dream,
"my organization, the mechanism of flesh and bone, that is quickened

by the will in me, and makes of me an individual MAN, must display
some perceptible disease. Doctors ought to understand the symptoms of

any attack on vitality, and could tell me whether I am sick or sound."
He gazed at his sleeping wife. She had stretched her head out to him,

expressing in this way even while she slept the anxioustenderness of
love. Pauline seemed to look at him as she lay with her face turned

towards him in an attitude as full of grace as a young child's, with
her pretty, half-opened mouth held out towards him, as she drew her

light, even breath. Her little pearly teeth seemed to heighten the
redness of the fresh lips with the smile hovering over them. The red

glow in her complexion was brighter, and its whiteness was, so to
speak, whiter still just then than in the most impassioned moments of

the waking day. In her unconstrained grace, as she lay, so full of
believing trust, the adorable attractions of childhood were added to

the enchantments of love.
Even the most unaffected women still obey certain social conventions,

which restrain the free expansion of the soul within them during their
waking hours; but slumber seems to give them back the spontaneity of

life which makes infancy lovely. Pauline blushed for nothing; she was
like one of those beloved and heavenly beings, in whom reason has not

yet put motives into their actions and mystery into their glances. Her
profile stood out in sharp relief against the fine cambric of the

pillows; there was a certain sprightliness about her loose hair in
confusion, mingled with the deep lace ruffles; but she was sleeping in

happiness, her long lashes were tightly pressed against her cheeks, as
if to secure her eyes from too strong a light, or to aid an effort of

her soul to recollect and to hold fast a bliss that had been perfect
but fleeting. Her tiny pink and white ear, framed by a lock of her

hair and outlined by a wrapping of Mechlin lace, would have made an
artist, a painter, an old man, wildly in love, and would perhaps have

restored a madman to his senses.
Is it not an ineffable bliss to behold the woman that you love,

sleeping, smiling in a peaceful dream beneath your protection, loving
you even in dreams, even at the point where the individual seems to

cease to exist, offering to you yet the mute lips that speak to you in
slumber of the latest kiss? Is it not indescribable happiness to see a

trusting woman, half-clad, but wrapped round in her love as by a cloak
--modesty in the midst of dishevelment--to see admiringly her

scattered clothing, the silkenstockinghastily put off to please you
last evening, the unclasped girdle that implies a boundless faith in

you. A whole romance lies there in that girdle; the woman that it used
to protect exists no longer; she is yours, she has become YOU;

henceforward any betrayal of her is a blow dealt at yourself.
In this softened mood Raphael's eyes wandered over the room, now

filled with memories and love, and where the very daylight seemed to
take delightful hues. Then he turned his gaze at last upon the

outlines of the woman's form, upon youth and purity, and love that
even now had no thought that was not for him alone, above all things,

and longed to live for ever. As his eyes fell upon Pauline, her own
opened at once as if a ray of sunlight had lighted on them.

"Good-morning," she said, smiling. "How handsome you are, bad man!"
The grace of love and youth, of silence and dawn, shone in their

faces, making a divine picture, with the fleeting spell over it all
that belongs only to the earliest days of passion, just as simplicity

and artlessness are the peculiar possession of childhood. Alas! love's
springtide joys, like our own youthfullaughter, must even take

flight, and live for us no longer save in memory; either for our
despair, or to shed some soothing fragrance over us, according to the

bent of our inmost thoughts.
"What made me wake you?" said Raphael. "It was so great a pleasure to

watch you sleeping that it brought tears to my eyes."
"And to mine, too," she answered. "I cried in the night while I

watched you sleeping, but not with happiness. Raphael, dear, pray
listen to me. Your breathing is labored while you sleep, and something

rattles in your chest that frightens me. You have a little dry cough
when you are asleep, exactly like my father's, who is dying of

phthisis. In those sounds from your lungs I recognized some of the
peculiar symptoms of that complaint. Then you are feverish; I know you