So long as the moon held, Antony stole up the wood each night to meet Silencieux—"at the rising of the moon." Sometimes he would lie in a hollow with her head upon his knee, and gaze for an hour at a time, entranced, into her face. He would feign to himself that she slept, and he would hold his breath lest he should awaken her. Sometimes he would say in a tender whisper, not loud enough for her to hear:—

"It is cold to-night, Silencieux. See, my cloak will keep you warm."

Once as he did this she heaved a gentle sigh, as though thanking him.

At other times he would place her against the gable of the chÂlet, so that the moonlight fell upon her, and then he would plunge into the wood and walk its whole length, so that, as he wound his way back through the intervening brakes, her face would come and go, glimmering away off through the leafage, beckoning to him to return. And once he thought he heard her call his name very softly through the wood.

That may have been an illusion, but it was during these days that he did actually hear her speak for the first time. He had been writing till past midnight, with her smile just above him, and when he had turned out the lamp and was moving to the door through the vague flickering light of the fire, he distinctly heard a voice very luxurious and tender say "Antony," just behind him. It was hardly more than a whisper, but its sweetness thrilled his blood, and half in joy and fear he turned to her again. But she was only smiling inscrutably as before, and she spoke no more for that night.