It thus happened that towards the
end of April Noemi was with the Dessalles at Bruges. They occupied a
small villa on the shore of the little mirror of water called "Lac
d'Amour." Carlino had fallen in love with Bruges and especially with the
Lac d'Amour, the name of which he contemplated giving to the novel he
dreamed of writing. As yet, however, the novel existed only in
his brain, while he lived in the pleasant anticipation of one day
astonishing the world with an exquisite and original work of art.
"_En tout cas_," Noemi replied--"not with all my heart."
"Why?"
"Because I am thinking of giving my heart to another person."
"To whom?"
"To a monk."
Jeanne shuddered, and Noemi, to whom her friend had confided the story
of her hopeless love for the man who had disappeared, buried in the
hidden solitude of a cloister, trembled lest she had erred in thus
lightly introducing a subject with which her mind was much occupied.
"By the way, what about Memling," she said, colouring violently, "we
were going to talk about Memling.
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