Part 57 (1/2)
”I know who is coming,” said Seraphita in a sleepy voice. ”Wilfrid may come in.”
On hearing these words, a man at once appeared, and came to sit down by her.
”My dear Seraphita, are you ill? You look paler than usual.”
She turned languidly towards him, after tossing back her hair like a pretty woman overpowered by sick headache and too feeble to complain.
”I was foolish enough,” said she, ”to cross the fiord with Minna; we have been up the Falberg.”
”Did you want to kill yourself?” cried he, with a lover's alarm.
”Do not be uneasy, my good Wilfrid, I took great care of your Minna.”
Wilfrid struck the table violently with his hand, took a few steps towards the door with an exclamation of pain; then he came back and began to reproach her.
”Why so much noise if you suppose me to be suffering?” said Seraphita.
”I beg your pardon, forgive me,” said he, kneeling down. ”Speak harshly to me, require anything of me that your cruel woman's caprice may suggest to you as hardest to be endured, but, my beloved, do not doubt my love! You use Minna like a hatchet to hit me with again and again. Have some mercy!”
”Why speak thus, my friend, when you know that such words are useless?” she replied, looking at him with a gaze that became at last so soft that what Wilfrid saw was not Seraphita's eyes, but a fluid light s.h.i.+mmering like the last vibrations of a song full of Italian languor.
”Ah! anguish cannot kill!” cried he.
”Are you in pain?” said she, in a voice which produced on him the same effect as her look. ”What can I do for you?”
”Love me, as I love you!”
”Poor Minna!” said she.
”I never bring any weapons!” cried Wilfrid.
”You are in a detestable temper,” said Seraphita, smiling. ”Have I not spoken nicely, like the Parisian ladies of whom you tell me love stories?”
Wilfrid sat down, folded his arms, and looked gloomily at Seraphita.
”I forgive you,” said he, ”for you know not what you do.”
”Oh!” retorted she, ”every woman from Eve downwards knows when she is doing good or evil.”
”I believe it,” said he.
”I am sure of it, Wilfrid. Our intuition is just what makes us so perfect.
What you men have to learn, we feel.”
”Why, then, do you not feel how much I love you?”
”Because you do not love me.”
”Great G.o.d!”
”Why then do you complain of anguish?”