I pinned

to your destiny when I married you. The gypsy, you remember

her prophecy!

My dear friend, not here, the servants are watching; send them away,

and that flashing splendour, Roustan. Superb -- Imperial,

but . . .

My dear, your arm is trembling; I faint to feel it touching me! No,

no,

Bonaparte, not that -- spare me that -- did we not bury that last

night!

You hurt me, my friend, you are so hot and strong. Not

long, Dear,

no, thank God, not long.

The looped river runs saffron, for the sun is setting. It

is getting dark.

Dark. Darker. In the moonlight, the slate

roof shines palely milkily white.

The roses have faded at Malmaison, nipped by the

frost. What need for roses?

Smooth, open petals -- her arms. Fragrant, outcurved

petals -- her breasts.

He rises like a sun above her, stooping to touch the petals, press

them wider.

Eagles. Bees. What are they to open roses! A

little shivering breeze

runs through the linden-trees, and the tiered clouds blow across

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