Before her was a large crystal glass, cut in the shape of a
chalice, which reflected the glittering lights on its thousand sparkling
facets, shining like the prism and revealing the seven colors of the
rainbow. She listlessly extended her arm and filled it to the brim with
Cyprian and a sweetened Oriental wine which I afterward found so bitter
on the deserted Lido.
"Here," she said, presenting it to me, "_per voi, bambino mio_."
"For you and for me," I said, presenting her my glass in turn.
She moistened her lips while I emptied my glass, unable to conceal the
sadness she seemed to read in my eyes.
"Is it not good?" she asked.
"No," I replied.
"Perhaps your head aches?"
"No."
"Or you are tired?"
"No."
"Ah! then it is the ennui of love?"
With these words she became serious, for in spite of herself, in speaking
of love, her Italian heart beat the faster.
A scene of folly ensued. Heads were becoming heated, cheeks were assuming
that purple hue with which wine colors the face as though to prevent
shame from appearing there; a confused murmur like to that of a rising
sea could be heard all over the room, here and there eyes would become
inflamed, then fixed and empty; I know not what wind stirred above this
drunkenness. A woman rose, as in a tranquil sea the first wave that feels
the tempest's breath, and rises to announce it; she makes a sign with her
hand to command silence, empties her glass at a gulp, and with the same
movement undoes her hair, which falls in shining tresses over her
shoulders; she opens her mouth as though to start a drinking song; her
eyes were half closed.
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