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"Che Diavolo!" muttered Artois.
Then he went up to look for Vere.
A little wind met him on the crest of the cliff, the definite caress
of the night, which had now fallen ever so softly. The troop of the
stars was posted in the immeasurable deeps of the firmament. There
was, there would be, no moon, yet it was not black darkness, but
rather a dimly purple twilight which lifted into its breast the
wayward songs of the sea. And the songs and the stars seemed twin
children of the wedded wave and night. Divinely soft was the wind,
divinely dreamy the hour, and bearing something of youth as a galley
from the East bears odors. Over the spirit of Artois a magical essence
seemed scattered. And the youngness that lives forever, however deeply
buried, in the man who is an artist, stirred, lifted itself up, stood
erect to salute the night. As he came towards Vere he forgot. The
poppy draught was at his lips. The extreme consciousness, which was
both his strength and his curse, sank down for a moment and profoundly
slept.


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