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Now it was late. Her Book was dead. Her child had left her. And the blue garden was closed.
BOOK III
I
Anne-Marie stirred, sighed, and awoke.
The room was dim and silent. But soon a gentle, rhythmical sound fell on her ears, and pleased her. It was a soft, regular sound, like the ticking of a clock, like the beating of a heart--it was the rocking of a cradle.
Anne-Marie smiled to herself, and her soul sank into peacefulness. The gentle clicking sound lulled her near to sleep again. She was utterly at peace--utterly happy. Life opened wider portals over wider s.h.i.+ning lands.
Then, with the awakening of memory, came the thought of her violin. With a soft tremor of joy, she realized that the brief silence of the past year was over. Music would stream again from her hands over the world.
Her violin! Under her closed lashes she thought of it. She could see the gold-brown curves of the volute, the soft swing of the F's, the tense, sensitive strings resting on the lithe, slim bridge--all waiting for her, waiting for the touch of her wild young fingers to spring into life and song again.
The tears welled into her closed eyes. How she would work! What songs, what symphonies she would create! How much she would say that n.o.body had yet said....
Already Inspiration, nebulous and wan, laid soft hands upon her--drawing faint harmonies, like floating ribbons, through her brain. Then joy rushed through her like a living thing, and she saw her life before her.
She would ascend the wide white road of Immortality with Love upholding her, with Genius burning and exalting her like a flaming star that had fallen into her soul....
In the shadowy cradle the baby opened its eyes and said: "I am hungry."
