Hippolyte exulted from joy when George told her of the near arrival of the piano and pieces of music. How grateful she was to him for that kind surprise! At last, they would have something to break the monotony of the long days and to keep them from temptation.
She laughed as she alluded to that species of erotic fever with which she maintained continual ardor in her lover; she laughed as she alluded to their carnalism, interrupted only by the silences of lassitude or by some caprice of the loved one.
"In that way," she said, laughing, with a touch of irony yet without bitterness, "in that way you won't have to take refuge on your horrid Trabocco. Will you?"
She drew close to him, laid her hands on his head, pressed his temples between her palms, and gazed into the depths of his pupils.
"Confess that you took refuge there because of that," she murmured, in a coaxing voice, as if to induce him to confess.
"Because of what?" he demanded, feeling under the contact of her hands the sensation one feels when one grows pale.
"Because you are afraid of my kisses."
She pronounced the words slowly, almost scanning the syllables, and in a voice which had all at once assumed singular limpidity. She had in her look an indefinable mixture of passion, irony, cruelty, and pride.
"Is it true, is it true?" she insisted.
She continued to press his temples between her palms; but, gradually, her fingers crept into his hair, slightly tickled his ears, descended to his neck with one of those multiple kisses in the science of which she was an accomplished artist.