The door of the balcony opened behind them, and Madame Berthe, the
proprietress herself, moved at their side; her old-fashioned body,
shaped like an hour-glass, was clothed in rucked black silk, which
flowed over her like a pigment; flowed from her chin to the floor, upon
which it lay stiffly in hills and valleys of braided hem. Her gay gold
tooth gleamed, and the gold in her ears wagged, as she fed them gently
on omelette, chicken and tinned peas, and a _souffle_ ice.
They talked a little, sleepy after the wind, smiling at each other.
"Don't you want more light than that?" said Madame Berthe, coming in
again softly with the coffee.
Fanny shook her head. "Not any more than this."
Then they were left alone, stirring the coffee, gazing down between the
wooden columns at the diners below.
"Of what are you thinking?" she asked, as a sigh escaped her companion.
"The move to Chantilly. I am so loth to break up all this."
"Break up?"
"Ah, well, it changes, doesn't it? Even if it is no longer the same
landscape it changes!"
After a silence he added: "How fragile it is!"
"What?"
"You!" He covered her hand with both his. "You! What I think you are,
and what you think I am. Love and illusion. Too fragile to be given to
us with our blunders and our nonsense."
She watched him, silent, and he went on:
"I don't understand this life.
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