She gazed pensively into the oval sheet of leaden
water slumbering at her feet, at the passing clouds, casting their
ever-changing shadows on the little villa, on the deserted garden, the
trees of the opposite bank, the distant fields, on the bridge to
the left, and on the quiet roads, which lost themselves behind the
Beguinage, and on the slanting roofs of Bruges, grand, mysterious, dead.
Could it be that _l'Intruse_ of whom she had just been reading, that
fatal, unseen visitor, was even now crossing the sepulchral city; could
it be that the short ripples upon the face of the dark water were her
shadow, while she herself had reached the threshold of the villa,
bringing with her the coveted gift of eternal sleep! The church bells
chimed the hour of five. High, high up, near the white clouds, magic
voices of innumerable bells sang over the houses, the squares, the
streets of Bruges that melancholy incantation which renders its rest
eternal. Jeanne felt two cool hands upon her eyes, a wave of perfume
touched her cheek, a breath stirred her hair, whispering "_encore une
intruse_," and then soft lips kissed her.
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