Luiza, her head bent down, her eyes fixed on the floor, listened motionless to these accents, full of power and passion, that breathed in her ear the breath of love, overmastering and subjugating her; the contact of Bazilio’s hands transmitted to hers a feverish heat; a subtle languor stole over her, stupefying her senses.
“Speak to me, answer me,” he said with anxiety, crushing her hands in his, and eagerly seeking to meet her glance.
“What do you wish me to say to you?” responded Luiza in a languid voice. “Let us speak of something else,” she said, turning her head aside and sighing.
“But why, why?” asked Bazilio.
“No, Bazilio, no; leave me.”
Her voice had the fervor of a prayer and the sweetness of a caress.
Without further hesitation he caught her in his arms. Luiza was powerless to resist; her lips were pale, her eyes closed, and Bazilio, drawing her head to his breast, bent down, and softly pressed long kisses on her eyelids, her face, her mouth; her knees bent under her, her lips were slightly parted. But all at once she straightened herself, and drawing back from him, exclaimed in accents of desperation,—
“Leave me! leave me!”
With a violent effort she released herself from his arms, pushed him away from her, and passed her hands over her forehead and her hair, with a look of terror.
“Oh, my God!” she cried; “this is horrible! Leave me!”