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Updated: June 12, 2025
Could you not spare her so little, Silencieux?" "I can spare her nothing. You must be all mine, Antony your every thought and hope and dream. So long as there is another woman in the world for you except me, I cannot be yours in the depths of my being, nor you mine. There must always be something withheld. It will never be perfect, until " "Until when?"
For days he left Silencieux alone in the wood, and Beatrice's face brightened with their renewed companionship; but all the time he seemed to hear Silencieux calling him, and he knew that he would have to go back. One night, almost happy again, as he lay by the side of Beatrice, who was sleeping deeply, he rose stealthily, and looked out into the wood.
Sometimes it seemed as if the white face of Silencieux looked out from the woodside, and mocked her with the same cry: "Death is coming! Death is coming!" Silencieux! Ah, how happy they had been before the coming of Silencieux! How frail is our happiness, how suddenly it can die!
Vane's company to come and praise his work; and ever since that he had been morne et silencieux. "You are fortunate," continued Mrs. Woffington, not caring what she said; "it is so difficult to make execution keep pace with conception." "Yes, ma'am;" and he painted on. "You are satisfied with it?" "Anything but, ma'am;" and he painted on. "Cheerful soul! then I presume it is like?"
He sought information of the shopkeeper, who told him a strange little story of an unknown model and an unknown artist, and two tragic fates. When Antony had brought Silencieux home to Beatrice, she had at first taken that delight in her which every created thing takes in a perfect, or even an imperfect, reflection of itself.
A modern ballad, quoted by E. Buret, sings the solitude of monopoly: Le rouet est silencieux dans la vallee: C'en est fait des sentiments de famille. Sur un peu de fumee le vieil aieul Etend ses mains pales; et le foyer vide Est aussi desole que son coeur. The spinning-wheel is silent in the valley: family feelings are at an end.
Ah! how divine was Silencieux in all her disguises! a divine child. Oh, how tender those nights was Silencieux! Antony sat and watched her face in awe and wonder. Surely it was the noblest face that had ever been seen in the world. "Is it true that that noble face is mine?" he would ask; "I cannot believe it." "Kiss it," said Silencieux gaily, "and see."
And sometimes, as the gaudy theatre resounded about them, they looked so still at each other that all the rest faded away, and they were left alone with each other's eyes and great thoughts of God. "I love you, Silencieux." "I love you, Antony." "You will never leave me lonely in my dream, Silencieux?" "Never, Antony." Oh, how tender sometimes was Silencieux!
A forked tongue came and went like black lightning through its eager little lips, and a handsomely marked adder began to glide, like molten metal, along the bank to Silencieux. The brilliant whiteness of the image had fascinated the little creature. Antony kept very still. Darting its head from side to side, venomously alert against the smallest sound, the adder reached Silencieux.
He had brought with him some sheets of paper on which were written the songs of little Wonder Silencieux had bidden him sing. They were songs of grief so poignant and beautiful one grew happy in listening to them, and Antony forgot all in the joy of having made them. He read them to Beatrice in an ecstasy. Her face grew sadder and sadder as he read. When he had finished she said: "Antony!
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