"What does it matter?" she replied with a gesture expressive of the most utter indifference, as she seated herself on the sofa. "You mean, will it not compromise me to make you a visit by night? Perhaps so. But that's unfortunately not sufficient cause for separation. Otherwise I should not have waited till I could visit a friend. The first person I chanced to meet would have suited my purpose, the chevalier, or our dear cousin Gaston, for instance, if I could break the chain so easily." Then glancing at the letter, she added: "What did you write to him?"
"Do you wish to read it? It's at your service."
"No; it makes no difference. You're going away--that says all--and I--I must stay here."
He looked at her as she uttered these words in an expressionless tone, as if only talking to herself. Her dilated eyes were fixed in a terrified gaze, on the candles burning in the silver candlesticks as if her life were fading and she was striving to rekindle the glimmering spark by these tiny flames. Her face was colorless, but inexpressibly attractive in its utter self-forgetfulness, which made the beautiful woman seem like a helpless child that, frightened by the dread of ghosts, files to some brilliantly lighted room and gazes straight at the lamp, that it may see no spectral faces to right or left.
"What really brings me here," she said after a pause, "is a question I wanted to ask you, but mind, I'm speaking to the philosopher, and not to the friend of former days."
"Of former days?"
"Let me go on. I want to ask you whether there is any justice on earth. Or no, you need not answer. It's perfectly evident that gifts are differently apportioned among men. That there is no justice, even in heaven--not even according to the representations of religious people--is also unquestionable, else what would become of the doctrine of election? 'Many are called, but few chosen.' For why did not the 'so-called gods,' of whom your friend spoke that day of long ago, endow all their creatures equally, if they had the power to be just? Intentional partiality, voluntary malice--no, that would be too fiendish. But now tell me, why must we endure degradation, neglect, to better the condition of the children of happiness, yes, even expulsion into bad company--such as you've found beneath this roof? Is not self-defence in mortal peril allowable? To help ourselves I mean, when one is wretched, disinherited, starving perhaps, and full dishes are carried past him? Or do you think it a sin to break one of the ten commandments under any circumstances? What? Are the gifts, powers, and happiness of men to be different, and yet must they have but one rule for their actions? Is the fainting beggar who plucks an apple from a stranger's tree, as great a thief, as a man who has plenty to eat and breaks into a treasury? Answer! Why may we not philosophize a little as usual? You would find me a better pupil now, for I've gone through the primary school and learned all the absurdities of this great world by heart--yes indeed, by heart, and it ached enough at the task."
"Dearest friend," he replied, "if you knew how my heart aches, aches till it's ready to burst, you would ask no philosophy from me. When I see and hear you, I have enough to do, not to give utterance to the fiercest cry of woe that ever burst from the lips of a thinking mortal. What could I say to you--except the most pitiful commonplaces. You question me about the mystery of life. The clue to it, which one and another fancies he has found, is but a new enigma; and it is equally mysterious that there should be men who are forced to rack their brains about this mystery until their hearts break, while others have never a sleepless moment, but await the solution as patiently as the answer to a charade which is to appear 'in our next number.' Meantime it is ordered--or we must see to it ourselves--that life and its work, thoughtless everyday work, withdraws us from our agitating search for the solution to the riddle. Dear Toinette--"
"I know what you're going to say," she quickly interrupted. "My idleness is the cause of all my sorrows. If I had something to do, I should not have time to ponder four and twenty hours a day over what I most lack. Is not that what you were about to say? To establish a child's school or hospital, make clothes for deaf mutes, or in my old age strive to cultivate a talent for painting or playing on the piano--all I these would be delightful occupations! But I'm not affectionate enough for one, or vain enough for the other. I don't love human beings, my friend, I mean abstract human beings, mankind. And yet, I know now that my only talent would have been love; but the love I mean, is love for one man and that man's children, and because I learned this too late--I must go to ruin--to ruin.
"But no," she suddenly exclaimed, and a passionate flush crimsoned her cheeks as she pushed the table aside and rose from the sofa. "I will not go to ruin, will not yield the right of self-defence and suffer my claim to happiness to be wrested from me, as it is from every disinherited soul. Words are of no avail against the decrees of fate, didn't you say so, Edwin? You're right, we must act, if we desire to win the respect of the 'so-called gods;' therefore I've come to you, my friend. Do not look at me so! You know what has brought me here, even if a wretched remnant of cowardice does not suffer me to express it. Be merciful, spare me, and tell me that you know all and will not thrust me from the only place where I can find happiness--your heart, Edwin!"