We parted, still under the influence of the chill which had gradually arisen between us.
When we met on the following day we talked exclusively of love and my supposed fiancée.
But after we had visited theatres and concerts for a week and taken numerous walks together, she had gained her object. The daily intercourse with her had become a habit of which I felt unable to break myself. Conversation with a woman who is above the commonplace has an almost sensual charm. The souls touch, the spirits embrace each other.
One morning, on meeting her as usual, I found her almost beside herself. She was full of a letter which she had just received. Her fiance was furiously jealous. She accused herself of having been indiscreet; he was recommending her the utmost reserve in her intercourse with me: he seemed to have a presentiment that the matter would end badly.
"I can't understand such detestable jealousy," she said, deeply distressed.
"Because you don't understand the meaning of the word 'love,'" I answered.
"Love! Ugh!"
"Love, my dear lady, is consciousness of possession in its greatest intensity. Jealousy is but the fear of losing what one possesses."
"Possesses! Disgusting!"
"Mutually possesses, since each possesses the other."