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THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL 143
I should make it my business to procure for her successes
on the stage ; I should bear all her sorrows, her disappoint-
ments, her failures, so that one day she could throw me
in the dust like a squeezed-out lemon—me, my whole life,
my brain, the marrow^ of my spine, my life-blood ; all in
exchange for the love which I gave her, and which she
accepted and called "sacrificing herself to me." Delu-
sions of love ! hypnotism of passion !
She sat without moving until ten o’clock, sulking. One
more hour and we should have to say good-bye.
All at once, with a word of apology, she put her two
feet on the cushioned seat, pretending to be worn out with
fatigue. Her languid glances, her tears had left me
unmoved ; I had kept my head, my strength of pur-
pose in spite of her fallacious logic. Now everything
collapsed, I beheld her adorable boots, a tiny piece of
her stocking.
Down on your knees, Samson ! Put your head in her
lap, press your cheeks against her knees, ask her to forgive
you for the cruel words with which you have lashed her
—
and A\hich she didn’t even understand ! Slave ! Coward !
You lie in the dust before a stocking, you, who thought
yourself strong enough to conquer a world ! And she, she
only loves you when you debase yourself ; she buys you
cheaply at the price of a few moments of gratified passion,
for she has nothing to lose.
I’he engine Avhistled ; the train glided into the station ; I
had to leave her. She kissed me with motherly affection,
made the sign of the cross on my forehead—although she
was a Protestant—commended me to the Lord, begged
me to take care of myself, and not to give way to fretting.
The train steamed out into the night, choking me with
its bituminous smoke.
I breathed—at last—the cool evening air, and enjoyed
my freedom. Alas ! but for a moment. No sooner had
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