He put his arm through his friend’s with a laugh, and drew him towards the balcony.
“Nevertheless,” he added, “even you have your moments of pleasure, haven’t you?”
He pressed Artois’ arm gently, but in the touch of his fingers there was something that seemed to hint a longing to close them violently and cause a shudder of pain.
“Even you have moments when the brain goes to sleep and—and the body wakes up. Eh, Emilio? Isn’t it true?”
“My dear Doro, when have I claimed to be unlike other men?”
“No, no! But you workers inspire reverence, you know. We, who do not work, we see your pale faces, your earnest eyes, and we think—mon Dieu, Emilio!—we think you are saints. And then, if, by chance, one evening we go to the Galleria, and find it is not so, that you are like ourselves, we are glad.”
He began to laugh.
“We are glad; we feel no longer at a disadvantage.”
Again he pressed Artois’ arm gently.
“But, amico mio, you are deceptive, you workers,” he said. “You take us all in. We are children beside you, we who say all we feel, who show when we hate and when we love. We are babies. If I ever want to become really birbante, I shall become a worker.”