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THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL 117
aristocratic figure clothed in a black velvet costume,
trimmed with military braid. I hurried to meet her and,
like a page, bent my knees before her. Her beauty,
which had blossomed under my kisses, was striking. The
rich blood in her veins shone through her transparent
cheeks : this statue, almost the statue of an old maid, had
quickened under my caresses, and grown warm at the fire
of life. Pygmalion had breathed on the marble and held
a goddess in his arms.
We sat down before a statue of Psyche, acquired in the
Thirty Years’ War. I kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her
lips, and she received my kisses with a rapturous smile.
I played the tempter, employing all the sophisms of the
orator, all the arts of the poet.
"I entreat you," I said, "leave your polluted house;
don’t consent any longer to live this life of three—or
you’ll force me to despise 5^ou. Return to your mother,
devote yourself to art ; in a year you will be able to appear
before the footlights. Then you will be free to live your
own life."
She added fuel to the fire ; I became more and more
incensed and warmed to my subject. I deluged her with
a flood of words, the object of which was to extract a
promise from her to tell her husband everything, for
then, I argued, we should no longer be responsible for
the consequences.
"But supposing things end badly for us?" she
interposed.
’•’Even if we should lose everything! I could no
longer love you if I could no longer respect both of us.
Are you a coward ? Do you crave the reward and refuse
to bring the sacrifice? Be as noble as 3’ou are beautiful,
dare the fatal leap, even at the risk of perishing ! Let
everything be lost save our honour ! If we go on like
this, we shall both be guilty in a very short time, for my
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