"What are angels like?"
"An angel is the most beautiful woman a poet can describe or imagine."
"Then there are no men angels?"
"Only Gabriel; at least I never heard of any other."
"Then I do not want to be an angel. I had rather be what I am. Besides, angels do not have tempers; they do not long for things they should not have; they have no sweethearts." She caught him roughly by the arms. "Ah, if anything should happen to you, I should die! It seems as though I had a hundred hearts and that they had all melted into one for love of you. Do men love as women love? Is it everything and all things, or only an incident? I would give up my soul to you if you asked for it."
"I ask only for your love, Gretchen; only that." And he pressed her hands. "All men are rogues, more or less. There are so many currents and eddies entering into a man's life. It is made up of a thousand variant interests. No, man's love is never like a woman's. But remember this, Gretchen, I loved you the best I knew how, as a man loves but once, honorably as it was possible, purely and dearly."
The shade of trouble crossed her face. "Why are you always talking like that? Do I not know that you love me? Have I not my dowry, and are we not to be married after the vintage?"
"But your singing?"
"Singing? Why, my voice belongs to you; for your sake I wish to be great, for no other reason."
He ripped a bunch of grapes from the vine, a thing no careful vintner should do, and held it toward her.
"Have you ever heard of the kissing cherries?" he asked.
She shook her head. He explained.
"This bunch will do very well."
He took one grape at the bottom in his teeth. Gingerly Gretchen did the same. Their lips met in a smothered laughter. Then they tried it again.
And this Watteau picture met the gaze of two persons on the terrace below. The empurpling face of one threatened an explosion, but the smiling face of the other restrained this vocal thunder. The old head vintner kicked a stone savagely, and at this rattling noise Gretchen and her lover turned. They beheld the steward, and peering over his shoulder the amused countenance of the Princess Hildegarde.
"You--" began the steward, no longer able to contain himself.
"Patience, Hoffman!" warned her highness. Then she laughed blithely. It was such a charming picture, and never had she seen a handsomer pair of bucolic lovers. A sudden pang drove the merriment from her face. Ah, but she envied Gretchen! For the peasant there was freedom, there was the chosen mate; but for the princess-"Your hat, scoundrel!" cried Hoffman.