And now with yellow gloves, silk stockings, shining shoes and a heart
as light as a leaf upon a wind she walked towards the Cathedral.
"He won't come. He won't be there...." She pushed at the east door.
He was under a Madonna, his black and silver hat in his hand, his eyes
critical and pleased as he walked to meet her. They sat down together
on a seat, without speaking. Then, each longing for the other to speak
--"You have come...." he said first. (His face was oval and his hair
was shining.)
"Yes," she nodded, and noticed a peculiar glory in the Cathedral. The
dark cave shone as white flesh and youth can shine through the veils of
a mourner.
They no longer lived their own separate lives; they had come together at
each other's call.
"I thought you wouldn't come."
"Why, why did you think that?"
Little questions and little answers fell in a sudden rain from their
lips. Yet while Fanny spoke he did not seem to know what she said, and
answered at random, or sometimes he did not answer at all, but smiled.
Afraid of the fragile avowal of silence, evading it, she found little
words to follow one another. But he answered less and less, and smiled
at her, till his face was full of this smile. So then she said: "We'll
go out and walk by the river," and he rose at once and followed her
among the forest of wooden chairs.
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