One can still hear belated drops falling from the branches which overhang the wall.

The air is charged with odors of earth and leaves and flowers, and wreaths of wind go heavily by.
She is the first to speak; she speaks of one thing and another.
I do not know what she is saying; I draw nearer to see her lips; I answer her, "I am always thinking of you." Hearing these words, she is silent.

Her silence grows greater and greater in the shadows.

I have drawn still nearer; so near that I feel on my cheek the wing-beat of her breath; so near that her silence caresses me.
Then, to keep myself in countenance, or to smoke, I have struck a match, but I make no use of the gleam at my finger-tips.

It shows me Marie, quivering a little; it gilds her pale face.