Paul had seized her hands and was covering them with kisses.
Then there happened a strange and fatal thing between the two beings drawn one to the other by every passion. After tearing away her hands from his grasp, Lise Olsdorf, falling back a pace, grew deathly pale and staggered. Her eyes gleamed, her lips were parted, a guttural cry, passionate and almost savage, broke from them, and she fell into the arms of Paul, who had sprung forward to support her.
With a savage movement he crushed her in his arms, gluing his lips to hers.
Under the gloomy shades of the great alleys of Pampeln was no longer an irreproachable wife, or a Princess Olsdorf proud of her name. There was only a yielding woman conquered by desires until then unsatiated.
The other was the conqueror. The beast killed the soul.
CHAPTER IV.
GENERAL PODOI.
If I were a writer of the naturalistic school—that is, if I were without care for modesty or the choice of words—I should need here to summon physiology to my aid to paint in all its brutality the love that the Princess Olsdorf and Paul Meyrin felt for each other; and the lines that I should devote to this study, and the scenes that it would involve, would give their distinctive note to the book. They would probably make it successful, thanks to the unhealthy curiosity by which even the freshest readers are tainted nowadays, for we live in a strange age, when cynicism reigns alike in letters, art, business, and politics. Cynicism is indeed the only sovereign that our pseudo-republic is willing to accept.
In truth, license has never been so unbridled; never has mediocrity gone so far, impudence mounted so high, or indifferent work, dramatic and literary, had so much success, if cleverly launched. Our country, formerly known for its gallantry and good taste, has become the kingdom of what is common and vulgar.
This new state of things is due to many causes—the abandon of religion, the scandalous rapidity with which fortunes have been won, the eager desire to enjoy everything, and also—it is needful that one should dare to say it—the invasion of those numberless Southerners who have carried everything with a high hand, and brought with them into the society they have gained a footing in, the vanity, the extravagance, and the boastfulness inherent in their natures. A Gasçon or a Provençal may, of course, be an upright, worthy, and intelligent man, a devoted friend—I have known many with these qualities, but too often they are lacking. One might suppose they were incompatible with the terrible accent of these men, their epileptic gestures, their rage for loud talking, for calling people by their names, and for talking of their own affairs to everybody. And if the Southerner is a Jew, too, the case is worse than ever, for then no place or reward is safe from his greed.