It had never occurred to Vardri to be jealous of Emile.
With the curious insight that love gives he had formed a true idea of the relationship between the oddly-assorted pair. He had never thought of himself as her lover.
To him she was always the Ideal, the divinity enthroned.
He was content to kiss her feet, and to lay before them service and sacrifice.
Yet, though he might build a wall of love around her, he knew it could give her no protection against the realities of her present life.
She had given him dreams, and in them he could forget all other things, the things that the world calls real.
Everything had vanished as a mist—the dirty room, the chill of the dawn, his own physical wretchedness.
He heard only the honey-sweet voice, saw only the outstretched hand of friendship.
"Mon ami," she had called him, he who had never aspired higher than to be known as her servant.