No, no, but I hunger to be alone with you. You are mine, are you not? Or, I should say, I am yours. Isn't it true? I spend my life in looking for opportunities to meet you. Our love is made up of chance meetings, of casual bows, of stolen looks, of slight touches--nothing more. We meet on the avenue in the morning--a bow; we meet at your house, or at that of some other acquaintance--twenty words; we dine somewhere at the same table, too far from each other to talk, and I dare not even look at you because of hostile eyes. Is that love? We are simply acquaintances.
I do not know. I only know this life is wearing me out.
It is just because there are so many obstacles in the way of your love that it does not fade.
Believe me, dear, if your love has to endure these hardships, it is because it is not lawful love.
Well, I never met a woman as positive as you. Then you think that if chance made me your husband, I should cease to love you?
Not all at once, perhaps, but--eventually.
Nevertheless, it is quite true. You know that when a confectioner hires a greedy saleswoman he says to her, “Eat all the sweets you wish, my dear.” She stuffs herself for eight days, and then she is satisfied for the rest of her life.
Ah! Indeed! But why do you include me in that class?
Really, I do not know--perhaps as a joke!
I say to myself, here is a man who is very much in love with me. So far as I am concerned, I am perfectly free, morally, since for two years past I have altogether ceased to please my husband. Now, since this man loves me, why should I not love him?
On the contrary, I have _not_ been cruel. Of what do you complain?
Stop! you anger me with this continual raillery. Ever since I began to love you, you have tortured me in this manner, and now I do not even know whether you have the slightest affection for me.
Well, you must admit that I have always been--good-natured.
Oh, you have played a queer little game! From the day I first met you I felt that you were coquetting with me, coquetting mysteriously, obscurely, coquetting as only you can without showing it to others. Little by little you conquered me with looks, with smiles, with pressures of the hand, without compromising yourself, without pledging yourself, without revealing yourself. You have been horribly upright--and seductive. I have loved you with all my soul, yes, sincerely and loyally, and to-day I do not know what feeling you have in the depths of your heart, what thoughts you have hidden in your brain; in fact, I know-I know nothing. I look at you, and I see a woman who seems to have chosen me, and seems also to have forgotten that she _has_ chosen me. Does she love me, or is she tired of me? Has she simply made an experiment--taken a lover in order to see, to know, to taste,--without desire, hunger, or thirst? There are days when I ask myself if among those who love you and who tell you so unceasingly there is not one whom you really love.