a vaulted passage—and behold, you were in a great garden, where the brilliance and scent of exotic flowers burst from among the palm-trees, more intoxicating to their senses than the familiar scents and colours of the copse at Robinvast. Within the high walls of this strange oasis, the air hung motionless, heavy and feverish. The flowers breathed forth an almost carnal odour.
"What a place to make love in," thought M. Hervart.
He forgot all about Rose; his imagination called up the thought of Gratienne and her voluptuousness. He shut out the sun, lit up the place with dim far away lamps, spread scarlet cushions on the grass where a magnolia had let fall one of its fabulous flowers, and on them fancied his mistress.... He knelt beside her, bent over her beauty, covering it with kisses and adoration.
"This garden's making me mad," said M. Hervart aloud. The dream was scattered.
"Here's the tower," said Rose. "Let's go up. It will be cool on top."
She too was breathing heavily, but from uneasiness, not from passion. It was cool within
