“‘Are you ill?’ Sarrasine asked her. ‘Would you prefer to go home?’
“‘I am not strong enough to stand all this dissipation,’ she replied. ‘I have to be very careful; but I feel so happy with you! Except for you, I should not have remained to this supper; a night like this takes away all my freshness.’
“‘You are so delicate!’ rejoined Sarrasine, gazing in rapture at the charming creature’s dainty features.
“‘Dissipation ruins my voice.’
“‘Now that we are alone,’ cried the artist, ‘and that you no longer have reason to fear the effervescence of my passion, tell me that you love me.’
“‘Why?’ said she; ‘for what good purpose? You think me pretty. But you are a Frenchman, and your fancy will pass away. Ah! you would not love me as I should like to be loved.’
“‘How?’
“‘Purely, with no mingling of vulgar passion. I abhor men even more, perhaps than I hate women. I need to take refuge in friendship. The world is a desert to me. I am an accursed creature, doomed to understand happiness, to feel it, to desire it, and like many, many others, compelled to see it always fly from me. Remember, signor, that I have not deceived you. I forbid you to love me. I can be a devoted friend to you, for I admire your strength of will and your character. I need a brother, a protector. Be both of these to me, but nothing more.’
“‘And not love you!’ cried Sarrasine; ‘but you are my life, my happiness, dear angel!’
“‘If I should say a word, you would spurn me with horror.’