almost faint and between her kisses, that were as fierce as bites, uttering:  “I love you—­you—­I adore you—­” And the lovely, imperious girl again became, almost without a word having been exchanged, the submissive woman carried away by lascivious ardor; and Guy, confused and speechless, no longer reasoning, was unable to say whether Marianne belonged to him, or he to the mistress of former days, become the mistress of to-day.

He held her clasped to him, his hand raising her pale, languishing face about which her fair hair fell loosely; to him she looked like one asleep, her pink nostrils still dilating with a spasmodic movement, and it seemed to him that he had just suffered from the perturbing contact of a courtesan in the depths of some luxurious den.

It was an immediate reawakening, enervating but furious.  She had given herself impulsively.  He recovered himself similarly.  The sudden contact of two bodies resulted in the immediate recoil of two beings.

With more bitter shame, he had had similar morose awakenings after a dissipated night, his heart, his brave heart thumping against the passionate form, often lean and sallow, of some satiated girl, fearfully weary.

What cowardice!  Was it Vaudrey’s mistress or the future wife of Rosas who had clung to his lips?

He felt disgusted at heart.

Yet she was adorable, this still young and lovely Marianne.

With cruel perspicacity, he already foresaw that he would be guilty of cowardly conduct in yielding to this sudden weakness, and ashamed of himself he disengaged himself from her hysterical embrace, while Marianne squatted on his bed, throwing back her hair from her face, still smiling as she looked at him and asked: 

“Well—­what?  What is the matter with you, then?”

She rose slowly, slipping upon the carpet while he went to the window to look mechanically into the yard.  Between these two creatures but a moment before clasped together, a sudden icy coldness sprung up as if each had divined that the hour was about to sound, terrible as a knell, when their affairs must be settled.  The kisses of love are to be paid for.

Standing before the mirror, half undressed, Marianne was arranging her hair.  Her white shoulders, her still heaving and oppressed bosom were still exposed within the border of her fine chemisette.  She felt her wrists, instinctively examining her bracelets, and looked toward the bed in an absent sort of way as if to see if some charm had not slipped from them.

“Guy,” she said abruptly, but in a tone which she tried to make endearing, “promise me that you will not refuse what I am about to ask you.”

“I promise.”

They now quite naturally substituted for the “thou” of affectionate address, the more formal “you,” secretly realizing that after the intertwining of their bodies, their real individualities independent of all surprises or sensual appetite, would find themselves face to face.