“Not to be able to love anybody!” she murmured.  “To wander alone through the world!...  And love is such a beautiful thing!”

She guessed what Ferragut was going to say,—­his protest of eternal passion, his offer to unite his life to hers forever, and she cut his words short with an energetic gesture.

“No, Ulysses, you do not know me; you do not know who I am....  Go far from me.  Some days ago it was a matter of indifference to me.  I hate men and do not mind injuring them, but now you inspire me with a certain interest because I believe you are good and frank in spite of your haughty exterior....  Go!  Do not seek me.  This is the best proof of affection that I can give you.”

She said this vehemently, as if she saw Ferragut running toward danger and was crying out in order to ward him from it.

“On the stage,” she continued, “there is a role that they call ’The Fatal Woman,’ and certain artists are not able to play any other part.  They were born to represent this personage....  I am a ‘Fatal Woman,’ but really and truly....  If you could know my life!...  It is better that you do not know it; even I wish to ignore it.  I am happy only when I forget it....  Ferragut, my friend, bid me farewell, and do not cross my path again.”

But Ferragut protested as though she were proposing a cowardly thing to him.  Flee?  Loving her so much?  If she had enemies, she could rely upon him for her defense; if she wanted wealth, he wasn’t a millionaire, but....

“Captain,” interrupted Freya, “go back to your own people.  I was not meant for you.  Think of your wife and son; follow your own life.  I am not the conquest that is cherished for a few weeks, no more.  Nobody can trust me with impunity.  I have suckers just like the animals that we saw the other day; I burn and sting just like those transparent parasols in the Aquarium.  Flee, Ferragut!....  Leave me alone....  Alone!”

And the image of the immense barrenness of her lonely future made the tears gush from her eyes.

The music had ceased.  A motionless waiter was pretending to look far away, while really listening to their conversation.  The two Englishmen had interrupted their painting in order to glare at this gentleman who was making a lady weep.  The sailor began to feel the nervous disquietude which a difficult situation creates.

“Ferragut, pay and let us go,” she said, divining his state of mind.

While Ulysses was giving money to the waiters and musicians, she dried her eyes and repaired the ravages to her complexion, drawing from her gold-mesh bag a powder puff and little mirror in whose oval she contemplated herself for a long time.

As they passed out, the oysterman turned his back, pretending to be very much occupied in the arrangement of the lemons that were adorning his stand.  She could not see his face, but she guessed, nevertheless, that he was muttering a bad word,—­the most terrible that can be said of a woman.