“Wanda,” I cried, seized again by that mortal fear, which always robs me of my breath, makes me lose possession of myself, “you want to be his wife, belong to him for always. Oh! Do not drive me away! He does not love you—”
“Who says that?” she exclaimed, flaring up.
“He does not love you,” I went on passionately, “but I love you, I adore you, I am your slave, I let you tread me underfoot, I want to carry you on my arms through life.”
“Who says that he doesn’t love me?” she interrupted vehemently.
“Oh! be mine,” I replied, “be mine! I cannot exist, cannot live without you. Have mercy on me, Wanda, have mercy!”
She looked at me again, and her face had her cold heartless expression, her evil smile.
“You say he doesn’t love me,” she said, scornfully. “Very well then, get what consolation you can out of it.”
With this she turned over on the other side, and contemptuously showed me her back.
“Good God, are you a woman without flesh or blood, haven’t you a heart as well as I!” I cried, while my breast heaved convulsively.
“You know what I am,” she replied, coldly. “I am a woman of stone, Venus in Furs, your ideal, kneel down, and pray to me.”