"Yes! and he said too that the story went that the sculptor who moulded
it had fallen so in love with the dead girl, that he had gone mad and
drowned himself in the Seine also."
"Can it be true, Antony?"
"I hope so, for it is so beautiful,--and nothing is really beautiful
till it has come true."
"But the pain, the pity of it--Antony."
"That is a part of the beauty, surely--the very essence of its beauty--"
"Beauty! beauty! O Antony, that is always your cry. I can only think of
the terror, the human anguish. Poor girl--" and she turned again to the
image as it lay upon the table,--"see how the hair lies moulded round
her ears with the water, and how her eyelashes stick to her cheek--Poor
girl."
"But see how happy she looks. Why should we pity one who can smile like
that? See how peaceful she looks;" and with a sudden whim, Antony took
the image and set it lying back on a soft cushion in a corner of the
couch, at the same time throwing round its neck his black cloak, which
he had cast off as he came in.
The image nestled into the cushion as though it had veritably been a
living woman weary for sleep, and softly smiling that it was near at
last.
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