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THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL 121
I poured out some wine. I gathered a rose and fastened
it in the golden thicket of her hair. My lips touched the
glass raised to drink to her health, to our love. I knelt
down before her and worshipped her.
"How beautiful you are!
"
For the first time she saw me as a lover. She was
delighted. She took my head between her hands, kissed
it and smoothed witli her fingers the tangled strains of
my unruly hair.
Her beauty filled me with respect. I looked at her
with veneration, as one looks at the statue of a saint.
She was enchanted to see me without the hated mask ; my
words intoxicated her, and she was filled "v\ith delirious
joy when she found that my love for her was at once
tender, respectful and full of ardour.
I kissed her shoes, blackening my lips ; I embraced her
knees without touching the hem of her dress ; I loved
her just as she was, fully dressed, chaste as an angel,
as if she had been born clothed, with wings outside her
dress.
Suddenly the tears came into my eyes, I could not have
said why.
"Are you crying?" she asked. "What is the
matter? "
" I don’t know. I’m too happy, that’s all."
" You, capable of tears ! You, the man of iron !
"
"Alas! I know tears only too well!
"
Being a woman of experience, she imagined that she
possessed the secret remedy for my secret sorrow.
She rose from the sofa and pretended to be interested
in the papers scattered about on the floor.
" You seemed to be stretched out on the grass when I
came in," she said, smiling archly. " What fun to make
hay in the middle of the winter !
"
She sat down on a pile of papers ; I threw myself down
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