But my little London boy loved me only. For him the world
held nothing but my face, and it was of his great love for me that he
died."
"But these were all poets," said Antony.
"Yes, poets are the greatest of all lovers. Though all who since the
world began have been the makers of beautiful things have loved me, I
love my poets best. Sweeter than marble or many colours to my eyes is
the sound of a poet singing in my ears--"
"For whom, Silencieux, did you step down into the sad waters of the
Seine?"
"It was a young poet of Paris, beloved of many women, a drunkard of
strange dreams. He too died because he loved me, and when he died there
was none left whose voice seemed sweet after his. So I died with him. I
died with him," she repeated, "to come to life again with you. Many
lips have been pressed to mine, Antony, since the cold sleep of the
Seine fell over me, but none were warm and wild like yours. I loved my
sleep while the others kissed me, but with the touch of your lips the
dreams of life began to stir within me again. O Antony, be great enough,
be all mine, that we may fulfil our dream; and perhaps, Antony, I will
die with you--and leave the world in darkness for your sake, another
hundred years.
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