“Has she told you so?”
“Almost; besides, those things don’t need to be told; they can be seen. I know women so well!”
“You are more fortunate than I. So you have triumphed?”
“Not altogether as yet; but it won’t be long, I am getting ahead very fast. Look you, with women, just be assiduous, persistent, and agreeable, and you can be sure of victory! Oh! I’m a crafty dog, I am, a finished roué! A man must be that, to please the women. Sentiment, sighs, tender words, those were all right once; nowadays, at the first meeting, you inflame; at the second, you toy; at the third, you take a kiss—pinch the knee, squeeze her, and she is yours.”
I could not restrain an angry movement.
“And this is the man she loves!” I said, rising abruptly.
Raymond, terrified by my action, had buried himself anew under the bedclothes.
“Do you still have nervous paroxysms?” he cried, without showing his face.
“No, no, I’m all right. Adieu, Monsieur Raymond! be happy; and, above all things, make Nicette happy.”
With that, I left him, returned to my own room, and locked the door. There I could at least give free vent to the passions which agitated me, and which I had had the strength to restrain in Raymond’s presence. My heart was torn by love, jealousy, anger, and the most profound melancholy in turn. I tried to regain my self-control and to overcome a weakness at which I blushed; then I went out. For a week I courted the distractions of society and abandoned myself to what men call pleasure. But those things that once attracted me no longer had the slightest charm for me. I went to the theatre, to balls, concerts, the most brilliant parties; everywhere I was bored and discontented; wherever I went, I carried in the depths of my heart a melancholy, a depression which I could not overcome.