She continued talking.  Truth perhaps was a good thing in other phases of existence, but it was fatal to love.  It was too strong, too crude.  Love was like certain women, beautiful as goddesses under a discreet and artificial light, but horrible as monsters under the burning splendors of the sun.

“Believe me; put away these bugbears of the past.  Is not the present enough for you?...  Are you not happy?”

And, trying to convince him that he was, she redoubled her exertions, chaining Ulysses in bonds which were sweet yet weighed heavily upon him.  Strongly convinced of his vileness, he nevertheless adored and detested this woman, with her tireless sensuality....  And it was impossible to separate himself from her!...

Anxious to find some excuse, he recalled the image of his cook philosophizing in his culinary dominion.  Whenever he had wished to call down the greatest of evils upon an enemy, the astute fellow had always uttered this anathema: 

“May God send you a female to your taste!...”

Ferragut had found the “female to his taste” and was forever slave of his destiny.  It would follow him through every form of debasement which she might desire, and each time would leave him with less energy to protest, accepting the most disgraceful situations in exchange for love....  And it would always be so!  And he who but a few months before used to consider himself a hard and overbearing man, would end by pleading and weeping if she should go away!...  Ah, misery!...

In hours of tranquillity, when satiety made them converse placidly like two friends of the same sex, Ulysses would avoid allusions to the past, questioning her only about her actual life.  These questions were chiefly concerned with the doctor’s mysterious work; he wished to know with the interest that the slightest actions of a beloved person always inspire, the part that Freya was playing in them.  Did he not belong now to the same association since he was obeying its orders?...

The responses were very incomplete.  She had limited herself to obeying the doctor, who knew everything....  Then she hesitated and corrected herself.  No, her friend could not know everything, because above her were the count and other personages who used to come from time to time to visit her like passing tourists.  And the chain of agents, from the lowest to the highest, were lost in mysterious heights that made Freya turn pale, imposing on her eyes and voice an expression of superstitious respect.

She was free to speak only of her work, and she did this very cautiously, relating the measures she had employed, but without mentioning her co-workers nor stating what her final aim was to be.  The most of the time she had been moved about without knowing toward what her efforts were converging, like a whirling wheel which knows only its immediate environments and is ignorant of the machinery as a whole and the class of production to which it contributes.