She thought she must tell an untruth.

“You mean some one whom I met at the station yesterday?  I assure you it was the most ordinary meeting in the world.”

He was painfully impressed with the fact that she did not dare to name the one she spoke of.  He, too, avoided pronouncing that name.

“Therese, he had not come for you?  You did not know he was in Florence?  He is nothing more to you than a man whom you meet socially?  He is not the one who, when absent, made you say to me, ‘I can not?’ He is nothing to you?”

She replied resolutely: 

“He comes to my house at times.  He was introduced to me by General Lariviere.  I have nothing more to say to you about him.  I assure you he is of no interest to me, and I can not conceive what may be in your mind about him.”

She felt a sort of satisfaction at repudiating the man who had insisted against her; with so much harshness and violence, upon his rights of ownership.  But she was in haste to get out of her tortuous path.  She rose and looked at her lover, with beautiful, tender, and grave eyes.

“Listen to me:  the day when I gave my heart to you, my life was yours wholly.  If a doubt or a suspicion comes to you, question me.  The present is yours, and you know well there is only you, you alone, in it.  As for my past, if you knew what nothingness it was you would be glad.  I do not think another woman made as I was, to love, would have brought to you a mind newer to love than is mine.  That I swear to you.  The years that were spent without you—­I did not live!  Let us not talk of them.  There is nothing in them of which I should be ashamed.  To regret them is another thing.  I regret to have known you so late.  Why did you not come sooner?  You could have known me five years ago as easily as to-day.  But, believe me, we should not tire ourselves with speaking of time that has gone.  Remember Lohengrin.  If you love me, I am for you like the swan’s knight.  I have asked nothing of you.  I have wanted to know nothing.  I have not chided you about Mademoiselle Jeanne Tancrede.  I saw you loved me, that you were suffering, and it was enough—­because I loved you.”

“A woman can not be jealous in the same manner as a man, nor feel what makes us suffer.”

“I do not know that.  Why can not she?”

“Why?  Because there is not in the blood, in the flesh of a woman that absurd and generous fury for ownership, that primitive instinct of which man has made a right.  Man is the god who wants his mate to himself.  Since time immemorial woman is accustomed to sharing men’s love.  It is the past, the obscure past, that determines our passions.  We are already so old when we are born!  Jealousy, for a woman, is only a wound to her own self-love.  For a man it is a torture as profound as moral suffering, as continuous as physical suffering.  You ask the reason why?  Because, in spite of my submission and of my respect, in spite of the alarm