“Well, I will make you a queen.”
“Again?”
“That is to say, a woman of fashion.”
Before this prospect she opened her large eyes like a child who is taken to the zoological gardens for the first time and introduced to unknown and strange animals, ostriches, giraffes, or delicate and impossible-looking pink flamingoes. She repeated my phrase, uttering the words as if they hurt her.
“A woman of fashion.”
It meant nothing to her. There had never been any question of it at the Sleeping Woods, and in Rome we lived as strangers, apart from the regular social hierarchy and absolutely at liberty to do as we wished. Now, however, this was the goal that I proposed for her. Already Paris had begun to claim me once again. I breathed its atmosphere, laden with envy and vanity and artificial charms, the more eagerly because for a time it had ceased to intoxicate me and I brought to it new appetite. I had not retained that which my love had given me—regeneration and peace of heart. On the contrary, I wished to force upon her my own habits of life. Face to face with this child, I became aware of the absurdity of my desire. I became aware of it, but I did not abandon it on that account. I wished the world to appreciate and to envy me the treasure that I possessed. In order to be in the fashion, my happiness required publicity.
She turned her head:
“It is impossible,” she said. “I should not know how.”
“Yes, yes,” I insisted, not without a little impatience. “You will learn. You can learn everything.”
“Dost thou wish it?” and then, correcting herself, “Do you wish it?” she asked.