Part 14 (1/2)
”Because I did not know you then.”
”Need you have been so particular with a girl like me?”
”One must always be particular with a woman; it is what I feel, at least.”
”So you would look after me?”
”Yes.”
”You would stay by me all day?”
”Yes.
”And even all night?”
”As long as I did not weary you.”
”And what do you call that?”
”Devotion.”
”And what does this devotion come from?”
”The irresistible sympathy which I have for you.”
”So you are in love with me? Say it straight out, it is much more simple.”
”It is possible; but if I am to say it to you one day, it is not to-day.”
”You will do better never to say it.”
”Why?”
”Because only one of two things can come of it.”
”What?”
”Either I shall not accept: then you will have a grudge against me; or I shall accept: then you will have a sorry mistress; a woman who is nervous, ill, sad, or gay with a gaiety sadder than grief, a woman who spits blood and spends a hundred thousand francs a year. That is all very well for a rich old man like the duke, but it is very bad for a young man like you, and the proof of it is that all the young lovers I have had have very soon left me.” I did not answer; I listened. This frankness, which was almost a kind of confession, the sad life, of which I caught some glimpse through the golden veil which covered it, and whose reality the poor girl sought to escape in dissipation, drink, and wakefulness, impressed me so deeply that I could not utter a single word.
”Come,” continued Marguerite, ”we are talking mere childishness. Give me your arm and let us go back to the dining-room. They won't know what we mean by our absence.”
”Go in, if you like, but allow me to stay here.”
”Why?”
”Because your mirth hurts me.”
”Well, I will be sad.”
”Marguerite, let me say to you something which you have no doubt often heard, so often that the habit of hearing it has made you believe it no longer, but which is none the less real, and which I will never repeat.”