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80 THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL
was with whom I was seen so constantly walking about the
parks and suburbs.
The remembrance of her tricks, her attentions, her
flattering tongue, gave me a kind of vicious pleasure. I
remembered a way she had of pulling out her watch and
showing a little bit of dainty underclothing. I remem-
bered a certain Sunday in the Park. We were strolling
along the broad avenues when she all at once proposed
that we should walk through the shrubbery. Her pro-
posal irritated me, for the shrubbery had an evil reputa-
tion, but she answered all my objections with a short
"Bother propriety! "
She wanted to gather anemones under the hazel bushes.
She left me standing in the avenue and disappeared behind
the shrubs. I followed, confused. She sat down in a
sheltered spot under an alder tree, spreading out her skirts
and showing off her feet, which were small but disfigured
by bunions. An uncomfortable silence fell between us.
I thought of the old maids of Corinth. . . . She looked
at me with an expression of childlike innocence . . . she
was safe from me, her very plainness saved her, and,
moreover, I took no pleasure in easy conquests.
Every one of these details, which I had always put
away from me as odious, came into my mind and
oppressed me, now that there seemed a prospect of
winning her. I prayed fervently for the comedian’s
success.
But I had to be patient and hide my feelings.
While I was reading his wife’s note, the Baron sat down
at the table, which was littered with old books and docu-
ments. He was playing wdth his carved ivory baton,
absent-mindedly, as if he were conscious of his inferiority
in literary matters. He defeated all my attempts to
interest him in my work with an indifferent, "Yes, yes,
very interesting !
"
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