At the bottom of her heart she was more flattered than grieved at the mischief she had done, so she repeated several times over how very sorry she was.

She added: 

“I cannot bear to hurt people.  Every time a young man is unhappy because of me, I am so distressed; but, honour bright, what do you want me to do for you?  Take yourself off, and be sensible.  It’s no use your coming back to see me.  Besides, it would be ridiculous.  I have a life of my own to live, quite private, and it is out of the question for me to receive strange visitors.”

He assured her between his sobs: 

“Oh! how I wish you were poor and forsaken.  I would come to you then and we should be happy.”

She was a good deal surprised he did not take her by the waist or think of dragging her into the garden under the clump of trees where there was a bench.  She was a trifle disappointed and in a way embarrassed not to have to defend her virtue.  Finding the conclusion of the interview did not match the beginning and the young man was getting tedious, she slammed the gate in his face and slipped back into the garden, where he saw her vanish in the darkness.

She bore on her hand, beside a sapphire on her ring finger, a drop of blood.  In her chamber, as she emptied a jug of water over her hands to wash away the stain, she could not help reflecting how every drop of blood in this young man’s veins would be shed for her whenever she should give the word.  And the thought made her smile.  At that moment, if he had been there, in that room, at her side, it may be she would not have sent him away.

XV

Jean hurried down the lane and started off across country in such a state of high exaltation as robbed him of all senses of realities and banished all consciousness whether of joy or pain.  He had no remembrance of what he had been before the moment when he kissed the actress’s hand; he seemed a stranger to himself.  On his lips lingered a taste that stirred voluptuous fancies, and grew stronger as he pressed them one against the other.

Next morning his intoxication was dissipated and he relapsed into profound depression.  He told himself that his last chance was gone.  He realized that the gate overhung with wild vine and ivy was shut against him by that careless, capricious hand more firmly and more inexorably than ever it could have been by the bolts and bars of the most prudish virtue.  He felt instinctively that his kiss had stirred no promptings of desire, that he had been powerless to win any hold on his mistress’s senses.

He had forgotten what he said, but he knew that he had spoken out in all the frank sincerity of his heart.  He had exposed his ignorance of the world, his contemptible candour.  The mischief was irreparable.  Could anyone be more unfortunate?  He had lost even the one advantage he possessed, of being unknown to her.