“Why do you not go on with them?” I asked.
“My heart isn’t in them.”
“But the author cannot always paint one’s own heart.”
“But it is so difficult to read a book in which you find nothing of yourself.”
I picked up one of the rejected books on her centre table.
“Listen to these beautiful sentences,” I began.
“Oh!” she replied, “a mannequin, too, wears beautiful clothes. I prefer something living underneath. Do you remember my wedding gown? It did not become me any too well. But I loved you so much—”
* * *
At that time, a foreign woman was being tried in Paris. She had driven her lover to kill her husband, and had then denounced him in order to rid herself of him and begin life anew with another. A veritable halo of fatality encircled her, for to know her was to love her, and to love her was to lose all honour and regard for humanity. Above all she had very beautiful hands, their beauty shining all the more clear when they were examined for any traces of guilty blood. She appeared before her judges with the grace and prattle of an artless child, charming everybody. Before testifying each day she would remove her gloves. It was the fashion to go to court and submit to the enchantment of her voice, her face whose very blemishes were thought of as the ravages of love or amorous decorations—to give our nerves their daily wrenching. The evening following the announcement of the verdict, we dined with Mme. de Saunois. The accused was the sole topic of conversation. Mme. de H— summed her up and conferred the following degree upon her:
“She is such an exceptional creature, so seductive. She rises above our common measure with such ease. Even her wickedness is attractive.”