I was struck with stupor. I was familiar with that sensation similar to drunkenness which characterizes love; I knew that it was the aureole which crowned my well-beloved. But that she should excite such heart-throbs, that she should evoke such phantoms with nothing but her beauty, her flowers, her motley costume, and a certain trick of dancing she had learned from some merry-andrew; and that without a word, without a thought, without even appearing to know it! What was chaos, if it required seven days to make such a being?
It was not love, however, that I felt, and I do not know how to describe it unless I call it thirst. For the first time I felt vibrating in my body a cord that was not attuned to my heart. The sight of that beautiful animal had aroused a responsive roar from another animal in my nature. I felt sure I could never tell that woman that I loved her, or that she pleased me, or even that she was beautiful; there was nothing on my lips but a desire to kiss her, and say to her: “Make a girdle of those listless arms and lean that head on my breast; place that sweet smile on my lips.” My body loved hers; I was under the influence of beauty as of wine.
Desgenais passed and asked what I was doing there.
“Who is that woman?” I asked.
“What woman? Of whom do you speak?”
I took his arm and led him into the hall. The Italian saw us coming and smiled. I stopped and stepped back.
“Ah!” said Desgenais, “you have danced with Marco?”
“Who is Marco?” I asked.
“Why, that idle creature who is laughing over there. Does she please you?”
“No,” I replied, “I have waltzed with her and wanted to know her name; I have no further interest in her.”