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ARIADNE. 41Ibought the slender, clear-typed book. Isatdown under the trees and readit: Pales at myfeet.It was beautiful; he seldom wrote anythingthat was otherwise. He had the secret of aperfect melody, and the sense of unerring colourand fonn.Ithad but a sHght story: Fauriel loved andwearied of love;there was Httle else for atheme;but the passion of it was like a pomegranateblossom freshlyburst open to the kiss of noon;the weariness of it was like the ashesof ahouse.The union wasintoxication to his own generation,which craves contrasts, as the sick palatecraves to be burnt and cloyed.Isat under the leafless branches and read thebook by the Hghtof the lamps above me. Therewerebands playing near some wheeling waltzingdreamy measure ; the verse seemed to go withthe music; the crowd wentby, the many wheelsmade a sound like the sea; beyond at the endwas the white pile of Napoleon's arch,and wintrymasses of trees and countless lights: — ifIlook