Automatically, he responded, “Yes.”
“But cold. Coldest of the season, I guess. Below zero, sir.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, here you are, sir. Sixth.”
“Thanks.”
Automatically, he stepped out of the elevator, and found his way through the corridor to his door. Automatically, he unlocked the door, passed it, locked it behind him. But then, of a sudden, his strength deserted him, his sensations rushed upon him, and overpowered him. He dropped upon the first chair he came to, and sat there, all huddled up, and staring blindly, like a drunken man. Indeed, it was not unlike a drunken man that he felt. He felt deathly sick. He felt an oppression upon his lungs, and had to labor hard for his breath. His head sagged forward heavily upon his chest; his brain went spinning furiously round and round. His ears rang. A blackish, half-opaque mist hung before his eyes, in which the objects about him swam dimly, bewilderingly, to and fro. The house seemed to be rocking on its foundations. In his breast—something—a lump, big and hot, like a coal of fire—was struggling frantically, in spasmodic leaps, as if to break away, and get outside. At one instant he thought it would choke him; it had sprung up into his throat. Again, he thought it would rend his very bone and flesh asunder, with such force it dashed itself against the walls that shut it in. Then, for another instant, it fell back, and was quiet; but then he thought it would burn him up, with its intense, angry heat. Liquid fire went circling through his veins, scalding them, and causing the uttermost parts of his body to throb and tingle.
So, for it may have been a half hour, he sat there upon that chair, limp, motionless, like one stricken impotent and senseless by too much wine. In the end, however, all at once, as if stung, he sprang up, and began striding wildly, with unsteady gait, back and forth across his floor. He moaned aloud. Sometimes he would wring his hands together. Sometimes he would press them to his temples. By and by he began to talk to himself. His voice was husky, his articulation indistinct. His words came in spurts. A spectator would certainly have put him down for drunk.
“She is going to be married.... married.... do you understand? Going to become the wife of another man. Another man is going to possess her.... do you understand? That man.... you saw him down stairs.... he is going to possess her. She.... Christine.... oh, God help me!.... Perhaps he has seen her, been in her presence, heard her voice, looked into her eyes, touched her hand, kiss.... yes, very likely.... kissed her.... this very day. Perhaps he is with her at this instant.... now.... he, with her.... do you understand? While you.... I.... I.... Oh, have mercy on me. Strike me dead.... And to-morrow morning she is going to marry him, to-morrow morning.... going to be married.... Well, well, it's all right It's none of my business. Yes, it's all right. She can do as she pleases. I can't help it. It's not my affair.... Only.... only, I want to know.... I want to know, why? Why is she going to marry him? Only tell me that: why does she want to marry him? Not for love. No! She can't love him. It would be impossible that she should love him. Don't tell me she loves him. No, no! Why, I say, look—look at how she loved me—how passionately, how entirely—with what complete, absolute surrender of herself! Why, after a woman has loved one man that way, I tell you, it is impossible, it is not in nature, for her ever to love another—really love another.... No!.... I don't care what her feeling toward me may be.... hatred.... indifference.... I don't care what.... I know she does not.... I know she never can.... love him.... love any body else. I know it. It would be against nature—impossible.... Oh, it's laughable. The idea! that she should ever feel toward any one as she felt toward me! Such perfect confidence.... such perfect giving of herself!.... Christine! Oh, do you remember, Christine? Do you remember how you loved me? How your eyes burned with love, and your fingers clung with love, and your bosom rose and fell with love, and your voice thrilled with love? And all our unutterable intimate joy? And how you said it was like anguish, it was so keen? And.... and.... Do you remember! And now, do you mean to say that you can ever be like that with another man—not me—with him—with any body? Like that? Loving like that? Oh, no, no! Monstrous! Impossible. No, no, you don't love him like that. Nobody could love twice like that. You never can love any one like that—any one but me. Me! I am the only man who has ever tasted that sweetness—who ever shall taste it. He—oh, the poor fool and beggar! He may be married to you a thousand years. He will never taste that—which I have tasted—never get even the perfume of it. Never—never!.... And yet.... and yet, she is going to marry him. Oh, Christine, tell me—for mercy's sake, tell me—why do you marry him? Why does she want to marry him? Oh, there may be a hundred reasons. But not for love. I am sure, not for love. Is marriage a proof of love? Did I marry for love? She pities him. That's it. He loves her. He has worked upon her sympathies. In despair—hopeless of any happiness for herself—out of pity—she has consented to marry him. He has importuned her—tired her with his entreaties—until she has consented.....But not for love.... Don't tell me she loves him—that my own beautiful Christine—dark-eyed Christine—loves another man—that man. Oh, the fool, the complacent fool, if he dares to imagine that! That she—my glorious Christine—mine, I say—once mine, always mine—my own—wholly mine—weren't our very souls burned together, into one?—that she loves him! Why, it makes me laugh! The poor, fatuous fool!.... And yet.... she.... she is going to marry him.... to be his wife.... He is going to possess her.... have the right to see her, hear her, touch her, every day.... while I—I—Oh, no! He thinks so, does he? I will show him. I will defeat him yet. It is not yet too late. I will go to her—I—now—at once—I will go to her—to Christine—yes—and see her, and speak to her, and touch her—take her in my arms—oh, God!—and tell her how I love her—and how I have suffered—and how I have never ceased to love her—. and pour it all out at her feet—all my love and sorrow and remorse—at her feet—now—to-day—before it is too late—and she—she will forgive me, and forget all the pain I have caused her—all the pain and shame—poor Christine, sweet little Christine, whom I hurt so!—she will forgive me, and—and love me again—she will love me—she does love me—she must love me, I tell you—yes—she will come to me, and love me—and we—she and I—we will go away together—to Europe—to South America—somewhere—anywhere—she and I—Christine and I—together—we will go away together, and—and.... Oh, what am I saying? God forgive me! What a low, miserable wretch I am! As if I had any power, any right! No, no! she will marry him. He will be happy. Perhaps he will make her happy. Why not? He is good and honest and well-to-do. He loves her, and will be kind to her. Why shouldn't he make her happy? Oh, Christine. I hope he will. If you will only be happy, then I shan't mind. God bless her, and make her happy. She will marry him, and she will love him in a certain way, in a quiet, peaceful way, and she will have children, and be contented, and live in comfort and peace—quietly—gently—forgetting me, and the pain I caused her, and—Oh, God! Oh, God! My punishment is greater than I can bear.”
He fell in an inert mass upon the floor, and covered his face with his hands, and moaned again incoherently; until again, all at once, he sprang to his feet, and, striding back and forth, as before, again began to talk to himself.
“I must see her. I must see her, and let her know. I must see her to-day—before to-morrow morning—before she is married. After, that, after she is married, as she will be to-morrow morning—after that, I can never see her. She will have no right to let me see her—no right to think of me, to hear from me—a married woman—another man's wife.... The letter—the letter I have been writing to her—she will never read it. Waste time—waste paper—waste effort. No use sending it. No use finishing it. After to-morrow morning, after she is married, she will have no right to receive it—to receive any thing from me.......Oh, I say, I must see her. If I am ever to see her, ever to let her know, it must be to-day. To-day, or never. After to-day—to-morrow—a married woman—she can never let me approach her—never—never.... Yes, to-day—right away—at once. I must see her right away, at once.... Oh, Love! To think of seeing you—really seeing you—and speaking to you! Oh, Christine—to-day, this very day, at last!.... There, there! Let me be calm. Let me think. How shall I—how can I manage it? To see her? Let me think.”