With all the thoughtfulness of lovers, he asked for a woman’s sympathy while telling her he loved her no longer.
But she protested no further. The heaving of her bosom revealed her inward distress, she accepted defeat and abandoned herself to it. Her failure had found her unprepared. Too long she had anticipated the joy of victory. Her girlish flirtation had changed into a deep, sensual passion, more prone to the extremes of hope and despair than skilled in the subtleties of sentimental diplomacy.
They were alone on the balcony. The crowd had passed into the theatre, where Iphigenia, the priestess, veiled in red draperies, was making ready to perform the blood-sacrifice.
Isabelle looked down on the foyer, whose size seemed immeasurably enlarged by its emptiness. She put her two hands to her throat as if she were choking and at last lifted her eyes towards Jean, who was looking sadly at the distress on her lovely face. She was suffering so intensely that no base or wicked thoughts stirred him any longer.
“Jean,” she sighed in a faint, hardly audible voice, “you are right. No woman is more worthy of your love. You will be happy, and I shall be most unhappy.”
She could say no more, but bending down took the young man’s hand and pressed it to her lips. He felt a tear upon it, and as she drew herself up he saw that her face was streaming. But she had already partially recovered herself and she smiled faintly.
“Are those pearls, Jean?”
“Your tears are a thousand times more precious.”
Taking her in his arms, he kissed her eyes. After this indiscreet farewell embrace they both felt faint. How many couples have been bound together for ever by as few moments of weakness! But a door opening suddenly saved them, and they went back to their box.
“I have wasted my whole life,” said Isabelle, while the attendant came up, key in hand.