1

i had been out of town for a time. returning to paris a day sooner than i intended, i wished to give rose the pleasure of an unexpected arrival and i went to see her that same evening. though it was not more than ten o'clock, the lights were already out in the strictly-managed boarding-house. there was a row of brass candlesticks on the hall-table. the man-servant wanted to give me one; but i was impatient, thanked him hurriedly and ran upstairs in the dark.

i could not have told why i was so happy; for, though i should not have been willing to confess it, i had long lost all my illusions about the girl. but she was so beautiful; and her passive temperament left so much room for my fancy! i never made any headway; but at the moment it always seemed to me as if i were heard and understood. i used to write on that unresisting life as one writes

on the sand; and, the easier i found it to make the impress of my will, the faster was it obliterated.

when i reached the floor on which rose's bedroom was, i stopped in the dark passage. a narrow streak of light showed me that her door was not quite shut. then, gathering up my skirts to deaden their sound, i felt along the wall and crept softly, on tip-toe, so as to take her by surprise. with infinite precautions, i slowly pushed the door open. i first caught sight of a corner of the empty bed, with its white curtains still closed; then of a candle-end burning on the table and of flowers and a broken vase lying on the ground. what could she be doing?

i was so far from imagining the truth that i do not know how i beheld it without betraying my presence by a movement or a sound. there was a young man in the room.

i saw his face, straight opposite me, near the guttering candle. a man in rose's bedroom! a friend, no doubt; a lover, perhaps! but why had she never mentioned him to me? i had been away a month; and in not one of her letters had she ever spoken of him. a friend? a lover? could she have a

whole existence of which i knew nothing? could her quiet life be feigned? but why?

at the risk of revealing my presence, i opened the door still farther; and then i saw her profile bending forward. thus posed, it stood out against the black marble of the mantel-piece like a cameo. rose had let down her hair, as she did every evening. her bodice was unfastened; and the two golden tresses brought forward over her breast meekly followed the curve of her half-exposed bosom. she was not astonished, she was not even excited. she seemed to acquiesce in the man's presence in her room; it was no doubt customary.

and suddenly, amid the thousand details that engaged my attention, a light flashed across me: was not rose's companion one of the boarders in the house, perhaps that painter of whom she had told me, the one who made a sketch of her head which she brought to me a few days after her arrival in paris?

his eyes never left her. he watched and followed her every movement, whereas she, in her perfect composure, did not seem even to heed his presence. and that was what struck me: rose's impassiveness in the face of that anxious and silent prayer. did she not

see? could she not understand? i almost longed to rush at her and cry:

"but look, open your eyes; that man is entreating you!... if you do not share his emotions, at least be touched by his suffering; if not your lips, give him a glance or a smile!"

oh, how like her it all is! and how the anxious pleading of the wooer resembles the vain waiting of the friend! but, alas, what in my case is but a disappointment of the heart, a tiresome obstacle to the evolution of an idea, is perhaps in his case a cruel and lasting ordeal!

suddenly, he falls on his knees before the girl. with his shaking hands, he touches her breast; then he kisses it gently. she does not repel him, but her bored and absent expression discourages any amorous action and withers the kisses at the very moment when they alight upon her flesh. then he half-raises himself to gaze at her from head to foot; and with all his ardour he silently asks for the consenting smile and the word that gives permission.

i shall never forget his look, the superb animal look, brilliant, glowing and empty as a ball-room deserted by the dancers, the superb, outspoken look

that accompanies the gift of life and seems to flee its mystery at the moment when it approaches.

he stammered a few tender words. his voice thrilled me. it was grave and clear as a bronze and silver bell. it rang true, for the most ephemeral desire is not false. i knew, by the sense of his words, that rose had not yet given herself.

sullenly and as though annoyed by the soft words, she brought the dark stuff of her bodice over her white bosom. to the young man it was like a cloud passing over the sky; and, whether or not because the girl's resistance exasperated him, he suddenly pressed her to him, sought her lips and made her bend for a moment under the violence of his embrace. but, with an abrupt movement, with a sort of vindictive rage, she succeeded in releasing herself.

then i fled from the house.

2

i did not recover myself until i was on the quay outside and felt the cold night-air against my face. my skirt was trailing on the ground; my hands made no movement to hold it up.

with my disgust and resentment there was mingled

a vague feeling of remorse. was it not i who had taught the girl the shamelessness that admits desire and the prudence that refuses to submit to it? had i not wished for her, above all other treasures, the power of judging, appreciating, choosing?

yes, but when i had talked of choosing, i had never imagined that the choice could be made in cold blood! so far from that, it had seemed to me that no more dangerous or painful experience could visit a woman's heart. the victory of mind over instinct and of will over desire is the price of a hideous, abnormal struggle opposed to the very law of our nature. a sad victory baptised with tears, a sacred preparation for the noble defeat that is to crown a woman's life!

besides, it was not her refusal that revolted me, for we cannot judge an action of which we do not know the reasons; it was her demeanour, her horrible indifference. the ugliness of the scene would not have offended me, i reflected, if the woman had been in any way troubled by it; if i had seen her resist her own desire or at least deplore that which she was unable to share; if i had seen her struggle for a sentiment or suffer for an idea, however absurd or wild! but rose had had neither tears nor compassion;

and the blind instinct that always prompts us to give our lives had not tempted her.

i continued to see that face of marble. i heard those impassive words. i pictured that body which felt no thrill, that mouth which abandoned itself without giving itself. no, i had never taught her anything of that kind; for, however light the pain which we cause and whatever its nature, we are forgiven only if our own heart feels a deeper wound. i did not understand her conduct. what had prompted it? to what chains of weakness had her soul stealthily attached itself, that soul which i had jealously protected against all principles and prejudices? what secret limits had she assigned herself despite my watchful care to give her none?

i felt grieved and disappointed; and yet ... and yet i walked along with a certain gladness in my step. the tears trembling on my lashes were not tears of helplessness, but of a too-insistent energy, for they came above all from my overwrought nerves. my mind saw clear and rent my remorse like a superfluous veil.

no, i was not responsible! our thought, once expressed, no longer belongs to us. whether it leave us when scarce ripe, because an accident has gathered

it, or whether it fall in its season, like the leaf falling from the tree, we know nothing of what it will become; and it is at once the wretchedness and the greatness of human thought to be subjected to the infinite forms of every mind and of every existence.

i walked for a long time without heeding the hour. the sky was clear and the stars glowed in its depths like live things; in the distance, the trocadéro decked the night with brilliants.

and, little by little, hope returned to me. i was persuaded that over there, in the little room which my care had provided for rose, love would yet be the conqueror. she would awaken under those kisses. my roseline should yet know passion and rapture. love would triumph. it would do what i had been unable to do, it would breathe life into beauty! and, in the dead stillness, i kept hearing the kisses falling, falling heavily, like the first drops of a storm.