Wilhelm left her string of passionate questions unanswered, and continued the thread of his former discourse: 

“But most certainly an older and more sensible woman, who should have learned wisdom from a first error, has no right to be guilty of a second one.”

“Oh, how hard you are!” murmured the countess.

“What would you have?” said Wilhelm.  Then with a sudden inspiration:  “A woman has every right to love; but then you have loved—­twice,”

“No, no, not even once.  I thought so perhaps, but—­”

“But, according to your own assertion this afternoon, one has been in love really if only one seriously believes one is.  And it is thankless to deny one’s love later on.  Do not contradict yourself.”

“And you, monsieur le philosophe,” she returned, raising her head, and her burning gaze encompassed him as with a circle of fire, “do you not contradict yourself too?  A little while ago you were demonstrating to me that you were a part of nature, and that unknown natural forces were at work within you, directing all you did, and to-day you extol the mortification of the flesh, which certainly has nothing to do with your unknown natural forces.”

He was going to reply, but she laid her soft hand upon his mouth.

“Oh, please, monsieur le philosophe, do not prove to me that I am wrong.  Be indulgent to my inconsistencies, as well as to everything else, I know I am full of contradictions.  I am no German philosopher.  But nature too is full of contradictions—­first day, then night—­now summer, now winter.  But in spite of it all I can be very consistent and true to myself in a question of real importance.”

Wilhelm drew away from the hand that caressed his lips and cheek, and said, averting his eyes: 

“You are a beautiful woman, and have a most exceptional mind, and it must be happiness indeed to be loved by you, but in order that that happiness might be full, one would have to love you in return, and there are men—­I do not know whether to call them too proud or too fastidious—­who can only love with their whole heart or not at all, and who cannot endure that the woman they love should treasure another image or other memories in her life.”

“Stop, my friend, stop!” cried the countess.  “You do not realize what you are saying.  That comes of your pride and vanity.  You always want to be the first—­to write your names at the head of a blank sheet.  Why?  Is the conquest of a silly, ignorant girl more flattering than that of a woman of sense, who can compare and judge?  Is not your triumph a thousand times greater when a disappointed, deeply-skeptical woman lays her heart at your feet, and says—­’You I will trust, you will bring me healing and happiness’—­than when a young girl gives you her love because you happen to be the first man who asks for it?  Other images!—­other memories!  Do you know so little of a woman’s heart?  Do you imagine that the past exists for us when real true love comes upon us?  We see nothing in the whole world but the one man, we cannot believe that our heart has not always beat for him, and we are firmly persuaded that we have always known and always loved him and him alone.”