Lucy. But, M. Bellac——
Bellac. And then—and then, their Egoes mingle, independently of the Ego itself, an uninterrupted series of involuntary acts which, by a natural succession, progressing slowly and inevitably, hurls them, if I may be permitted the expression, into the maelstrom which, though foreseen, cannot be avoided—in which Reason and Soul are powerless!
Lucy. One moment! This process——
Bellac. Listen, listen! Suppose now another couple and another love: a psychological, not a physiological love—an exception; you still follow me?
Lucy. Yes.
Bellac. These two, seated side by side, come nearer to each other——
Lucy. (Drawing away) But that’s the very same thing.
Bellac. (Bringing her back) Listen to me; there is the slightest shade of difference. Let me illustrate: they too gaze into each other’s eyes and they too——
Lucy. Well? (She rises)
Bellac. (Making her sit down) But—but—They are oblivious of physical beauty: it is their souls which commune. They no longer hear each other’s voices, but rather the palpitation of their thoughts! And then, finally, by an entirely different process—though springing from the same source—they too arrive at that obscure and turbulent state of mind in which the being is ignorant even of its own existence—a delicious atrophy of the Will which seems the summum and the terminus of human happiness; they leave the earth to awaken in a free Heaven, for their love transports them far above the murky clouds of earthly passion into the pure Ether of the sublimely Ideal! (A pause)