The Line of Love | Page 5

afloat in a luminous gray void, somehow
reminded Florian of a glistening and unripe huge apple.
The foliage about him moved at most as a sleeper breathes, while
Florian descended eastward through walled gardens, and so came to the
graveyard. White mists were rising, such mists as the witches of
Amneran notoriously evoked in these parts on each Walburga's Eve to
purchase recreations which squeamishness leaves undescribed.
For five years now Tiburce d'Arnaye had lain there. Florian thought of
his dead comrade and of the love which had been between them--a love
more perfect and deeper and higher than commonly exists between
men--and the thought came to Florian, and was petulantly thrust away,
that Adelaide loved ignorantly where Tiburce d'Arnaye had loved with
comprehension. Yes, he had known almost the worst of Florian de
Puysange, this dear lad who, none the less, had flung himself between
Black Torrismond's sword and the breast of Florian de Puysange. And
it seemed to Florian unfair that all should prosper with him, and
Tiburce lie there imprisoned in dirt which shut away the color and
variousness of things and the drollness of things, wherein Tiburce
d'Arnaye had taken such joy. And Tiburce, it seemed to Florian--for
this was a strange night--was struggling futilely under all that dirt,

which shut out movement, and clogged the mouth of Tiburce, and
would not let him speak; and was struggling to voice a desire which
was unsatisfied and hopeless.
"O comrade dear," said Florian, "you who loved merriment, there is a
feast afoot on this strange night, and my heart is sad that you are not
here to share in the feasting. Come, come, Tiburce, a right trusty friend
you were to me; and, living or dead, you should not fail to make merry
at my wedding."
Thus he spoke. White mists were rising, and it was Walburga's Eve.
So a queer thing happened, and it was that the earth upon the grave
began to heave and to break in fissures, as when a mole passes through
the ground. And other queer things happened after that, and presently
Tiburce d'Arnaye was standing there, gray and vague in the moonlight
as he stood there brushing the mold from his brows, and as he stood
there blinking bright wild eyes. And he was not greatly changed, it
seemed to Florian; only the brows and nose of Tiburce cast no shadows
upon his face, nor did his moving hand cast any shadow there, either,
though the moon was naked overhead.
"You had forgotten the promise that was between us," said Tiburce;
and his voice had not changed much, though it was smaller.
"It is true. I had forgotten. I remember now." And Florian shivered a
little, not with fear, but with distaste.
"A man prefers to forget these things when he marries. It is natural
enough. But are you not afraid of me who come from yonder?"
"Why should I be afraid of you, Tiburce, who gave your life for mine?"
"I do not say. But we change yonder."
"And does love change, Tiburce? For surely love is immortal."
"Living or dead, love changes. I do not say love dies in us who may

hope to gain nothing more from love. Still, lying alone in the dark clay,
there is nothing to do, as yet, save to think of what life was, and of
what sunlight was, and of what we sang and whispered in dark places
when we had lips; and of how young grass and murmuring waters and
the high stars beget fine follies even now; and to think of how merry
our loved ones still contrive to be, even now, with their new
playfellows. Such reflections are not always conducive to
philanthropy."
"Tell me," said Florian then, "and is there no way in which we who are
still alive may aid you to be happier yonder?"
"Oh, but assuredly," replied Tiburce d'Arnaye, and he discoursed of
curious matters; and as he talked, the mists about the graveyard
thickened. "And so," Tiburce said, in concluding his tale, "it is not
permitted that I make merry at your wedding after the fashion of those
who are still in the warm flesh. But now that you recall our ancient
compact, it is permitted I have my peculiar share in the merriment, and
I may drink with you to the bride's welfare."
"I drink," said Florian, as he took the proffered cup, "to the welfare of
my beloved Adelaide, whom alone of women I have really loved, and
whom I shall love always."
"I perceive," replied the other, "that you must still be having your
joke."
Then Florian drank, and after him Tiburce. And Florian said, "But it is
a strange drink, Tiburce, and now that you have tasted it you are
changed."
"You