Twice she saw him change countenance and give a start. The first time was when she told him of her German descent. An inbred hatred against all Germans and everything German filled him. An evil mockery glared in his face. He determined not to believe her and dropped the subject.
And the second time was when she spoke of Ivan Michailovitch Becker. She could not help it; she had to bring that name to the light. It was her symbol and talisman.
A glance like a whip’s lash leaped out of those slothful eyes. The two deep grooves between the eyebrows stretched like the antennæ of an insect. A diagonal groove appeared and formed with the others a menacing cross. The face became ashen.
Susan was impatient. She urged her on and lured her on. “Why do you hesitate?” she said to her mistress one evening. “So near the peak one cannot go back. Remember our dreams in Toledo! We thought they were insolent then. Reality puts us to shame. Take what is given you. Never will your sweet, little dancing feet win a greater prize.”
Eva walked in a circle about the rug. “Be quiet,” she said thoughtfully and threateningly, “You don’t know what you are advising me to do.”
Crouching near the fire-place, Susan’s lightless, plum-like eyes followed her mistress. “Are you afraid?” she asked with a frown.
“I believe I am afraid,” Eva replied.
“Do you remember the sculptor whom we visited in Meudon last winter? He showed us his work, and you two talked art. He said: ‘I mustn’t be afraid of the marble; the marble must be afraid of me.’ You almost kissed him in gratitude for those words. Don’t be afraid now. You are the stronger.”
Eva stood still, and sighed: “Cette maladie, qu’on appelle la sagesse!”