“Or is he very jealous?”
She remained silent.
“What then? He is young, handsome and, I suppose, rich—which is the chief thing—and you are afraid?”...
I glanced at her and was alarmed. Profound despair was depicted upon her countenance; tears were glistening in her eyes.
“Tell me,” she whispered at length, “do you find it very amusing to torture me? I ought to hate you. Since we have known each other, you have given me naught but suffering”...
Her voice shook; she leaned over to me, and let her head sink upon my breast.
“Perhaps,” I reflected, “it is for that very reason that you have loved me; joys are forgotten, but sorrows never”...
I clasped her closely to my breast, and so we remained for a long time. At length our lips drew closer and became blent in a fervent, intoxicating kiss. Her hands were cold as ice; her head was burning.
And hereupon we embarked upon one of those conversations which, on paper, have no sense, which it is impossible to repeat, and impossible even to retain in memory. The meaning of the sounds replaces and completes the meaning of the words, as in Italian opera.
She is decidedly averse to my making the acquaintance of her husband, the lame old man of whom I had caught a glimpse on the boulevard. She married him for the sake of her son. He is rich, and suffers from attacks of rheumatism. I did not allow myself even a single scoff at his expense. She respects him as a father, and will deceive him as a husband... A strange thing, the human heart in general, and woman’s heart in particular.