'Perfectly, perhaps almost too well; Paris will talk too much of you.'
'I forgot nothing?' she asked, still anxiously.
'You forgot nothing, and you looked--much too beautiful for men quickly to forgive me! No, dear, I do not flatter you; flattery would be absurd from me to you; I tell you the simple truth.'
'I am glad,' she said simply, 'for I have nothing else to reward you with for all you have given to me.'
She spoke shyly, for she was always in awe of him a little. Her arm, uncovered to the shoulder as the loose folds of the sleeve fell away from it, stole timidly about his throat; in all her caresses there was the hesitation of a proud and delicate nature blent with the longing of an ardent love. Habit had not familiarised her with the relation in which he stood to her; the brutalising intimacy of marriage had not dwarfed or dulled her ideal and adoration of him. He was still much less her lover than her lord.
Othmar took the bright gold of her heavy hair in his hand, and drew it through his fingers.
'On chasse de race,' he said, with a smile. 'You receive a great crowd as if you had been reared in a court from your babyhood.'
'You told me what to do,' she answered simply. 'It seems very easy; besides, every one was so extremely kind.'
'The kindness of society,' thought Othmar, 'the kiss of Judas!'
But he did not say so. Let her learn for herself what it was worth, he thought; the knowledge would come soon enough of itself.
Yseulte's face grew grave as she sat lost in thought.
'I do not think it is right to care for this sort of thing,' she said, with hesitation. 'It is only a sort of vanity. And then all these diamonds and these great pearls--they say they are worth millions--I do not like to wear them whilst there are so many without clothes or food of any kind; one knows that there is so much misery all about us here in Paris. Is it right, do you think, to enjoy oneself in this kind of way? I seem to remember nothing but myself all the day long----'
'Enjoy, my child, while you can; leave all those grave thoughts for your older years. If you like to sell your jewels, and give them all to the poor, you can do it, but wait a few years first; wait to see more of the world. There is a cruel science, called political economy, which they certainly did not teach you at Faïel; you must learn something of that before you try to decide these questions, which have vainly perplexed every thoughtful man since rich and poor were together on earth. And now, shut your pretty eyes, and sleep and dream of your triumphs; they have been very innocent ones, you need not repent them.'