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â4 THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL
"Has she given him her word? "
"No."
"Does she want to marry him? "
"No."
"Do her parents wish it?
"
"No."
"Why is she so determined to marry him, then? "
"Because ... I don’t know."
" Is she in love with me? "
" Perhaps she is."
" Then she is simply a husband-hunter. She has but
one thought, to make a bargain with the highest bidder.
She doesn’t know what love is."
" What is love ?
"
"A passion stronger than all others, a force of nature
absolutely irresistible, something akin to thunder, to
rising floods, a waterfall, a storm
"
She gazed into my eyes, forgetting the reproaches
which, in the interest of her friend, had risen to the tip
of her tongue.
" And is your love for her a force like that ? " she asked.
I had a strong impulse to tell her everything.
But, supposing I did ? . . . The bond between us
would be broken, and, without the lie which protected
me from my criminal passion, I should be lost.
Afraid of committing myself, I asked her to drop the
subject. I said that my cruel sweetheart was dead as far
as I was concerned, and that all that remained for me
to do was to forget her.
The Baroness did her utmost to comfort me, but she
did not cloak the fact that I had a dangerous rival in the
singer, who was on the spot and in personal contact with
his lady-love.
The Baron, evidently bored by our conversation, inter-
rupted us peevishly, telling us that we should end by
burning our fingers.
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