June airs fanned their
discontent into mild despair, and simultaneously they dreamed of another
life, of a harmonious existence far from Paris, into which the phantom
of Theophile Mineur would never intrude. Yet they made no demonstration
of their affection--they would have been happy to sit and dream on this
moon-haunted wall, near this nocturnal pool, forever. Hubert pictured
Berenice in her room, behind bolted doors, lying across the bed weeping,
or else staring in sullen repentance at the white ceiling. Why had she
indulged in such vandalism? The portrait was utterly destroyed by the
flaring smear laid on with a brush in the hand of an enraged young
animal. What sort of a woman might not develop from this tempestuous
girl! He knew that he had mortally offended her by his rudeness. But it
was after, not before, the cruel treatment of his beloved work. Yet, how
like a man had been his rapid succumbing to transitory temptation! For
it was transitory--of that he was sure. The woman he loved, with a
reverent love, was next to him, and if his pulse did not beat as
furiously at this moment as earlier in the day, why--all the better.
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