He undressed, casting a rapid glance at Hyacinthe’s face.  It was hidden in the darkness, but was sometimes revealed by a flare of the red hot fire, as a stick, half consumed and smouldering, would suddenly burst into flame.  Swiftly he slipped between the covers.  He clasped a corpse; a body so cold that it froze him, but the woman’s lips were burning as she silently gnawed his features.  He lay stupified in the grip of this body wound around his own, supple as the ... and hard!  He could not move; he could not speak for the shower of kisses traveling over his face.  Finally, he succeeded in disengaging himself, and, with his free arm he sought her; then suddenly, while she devoured his lips he felt a nervous inhibition, and, naturally, without profit, he withdrew.

“I detest you!” she exclaimed.

“Why?”

“I detest you!”

He wanted to cry out, “And I you!” He was exasperated, and would have given all he owned to get her to dress and go home.

The fire was burning low, unflickering.  Appeased, now, he sat up and looked into the darkness.  He would have liked to get up and find another nightshirt, because the one he had on was tearing and getting in his way.  But Hyacinthe was lying on top of it—­then he reflected that the bed was deranged and the thought affected him, because he liked to be snug in winter, and knowing himself incapable of respreading the covers, he foresaw a cold night.

Once more, he was enlaced; the gripe of the woman’s on his own was renewed; rational, this time, he attended to her and crushed her with mighty caresses.  In a changed voice, lower, more guttural, she uttered ignoble things and silly cries which gave him pain—­“My dear!—­oh, hon!—­oh I can’t stand it!”—­aroused nevertheless, he took this body which creaked as it writhed, and he experienced the extraordinary sensation of a spasmodic burning within a swaddle of ice-packs.

He finally jumped over her, out of bed, and lighted the candles.  On the dresser the cat sat motionless, considering Durtal and Mme. Chantelouve alternately.  Durtal saw an inexpressible mockery in those black eyes and, irritated, chased the beast away.

He put some more wood on the fire, dressed, and started to leave the room.  Hyacinthe called him gently, in her usual voice.  He approached the bed.  She threw her arms around his neck and hung there, kissing him hungrily.  Then sinking back and putting her arms under the cover, she said, “The deed is done.  Now will you love me any better?”

He did not have the heart to answer.  Ah yes, his disillusion was complete.  The satiety following justified his lack of appetite preceding.  She revolted him, horrified him.  Was it possible to have so desired a woman, only to come to—­that?  He had idealized her in his transports, he had dreamed in her eyes—­he knew not what!  He had wished to exalt himself with her, to rise higher than the delirious ravenings of the senses, to soar out of the world into joys supernal and unexplored.  And his dream had been shattered.  He remained fettered to earth.  Was there no means of escaping out of one’s self, out of earthly limitations, and attaining an upper ether where the soul, ravished, would glory in its giddy flight?