"That is possible, after all.In any case, she fills my mind almost continually.yes, perhaps I am in love.I dream about her too much.
I think of her when I am asleep and when I awake--that is surely a grave indication.Her face follows me, accompanies me ceaselessly, ever before me, around me, with me.Is this love, this physical infatuation? Her features are so stamped upon my vision that I see her the moment I shut my eyes.My heart beats quickly every time Ilook at her, I don't deny it."
"So I am in love with her, but in a queer fashion.I have the strongest desire for her, and yet the idea of making her my wife would seem to me a folly, a piece of stupidity, a monstrous thing:
And I have a little fear of her, as well, the fear which a bird feels over which a hawk is hovering.""And again I am jealous of her, jealous of all of which I am ignorant in her incomprehensible heart.I am always wondering: 'Is she a charming youngster or a wretched jade?' She says things that would make an army shudder; but so does a parrot.She is at times so indiscreet and yet modest that I am forced to believe in her spotless purity, and again so incredibly artless that I must suspect that she has never been chaste.She allures me, excites me, like a woman of a certain category, and at the same time acts like an impeccable virgin.She seems to love me and yet makes fun of me; she deports herself in public as if she were my mistress and treats me in private as if I were her brother or footman.""There are times when I fancy that she has as many lovers as her mother.And at other times I imagine that she suspects absolutely nothing of that sort of life, you understand.Furthermore, she is a great novel reader.I am at present, while awaiting something better, her book purveyor.She calls me her 'librarian.' Every week the New Book Store sends her, on my orders, everything new that has appeared, and I believe that she reads everything at random.It must make a strange sort of mixture in her head.""That kind of literary hasty-pudding accounts perhaps for some of the girl's peculiar ways.When a young woman looks at existence through the medium of fifteen thousand novels, she must see it in a strange light, and construct queer ideas about matters and things in general.As for me, I am waiting.It is certain at any rate that Inever have had for any other woman the devotion which I have had for her.And still it is quite certain that I shall never marry her.So if she has had numbers, I shall swell the number.And if she has not, I shall take the first ticket, just as I would do for a street car.""The case is very simple.Of course, she will never marry.Who in the world would marry the Marquise Obardi's daughter, the child of Octavia Bardin? Nobody, for a thousand reasons.Where would they ever find a husband for her? In society? Never.The mother's house is a sort of liberty-hall whose patronage is attracted by the daughter.Girls don't get married under those conditions.""Would she find a husband among the trades-people? Still less would that be possible.And besides the Marquise is not the woman to make a bad bargain; she will give Yvette only to a man of high position, and that man she will never discover.""Then perhaps she will look among the common people.Still less likely.There is no solution of the problem, then.This young lady belongs neither to society, nor to the tradesmen's class, nor to the common people, and she can never enter any of these ranks by marriage.""She belongs through her mother, her birth, her education, her inheritance, her manners, and her customs, to the vortex of the most rapid life of Paris.She can never escape it, save by becoming a nun, which is not at all probable with her manners and tastes.She has only one possible career, a life of pleasure.She will come to it sooner or later, if indeed she has not already begun to tread its primrose path.She cannot escape her fate.From being a young girl she will take the inevitable step, quite simply.And I would like to be the pivot of this transformation.""I am waiting.There are many lovers.You will see among them a Frenchman, Monsieur de Belvigne; a Russian, called Prince Kravalow, and an Italian, Chevalier Valreali, who have all announced their candidacies and who are consequently maneuvering to the best of their ability.In addition to these there are several freebooters of less importance.The Marquise waits and watches.But I think that she has views about me.She knows that I am very rich, and she makes less of the others.""Her drawing-room is, moreover, the most astounding that I know of, in such, exhibitions.You even meet very decent men there, like ourselves.As for the women, she has culled the best there is from the basket of pickpockets.Nobody knows where she found them.It is a set apart from Bohemia, apart from everything.She has had one inspiration showing genius, and that is the knack of selecting especially those adventuresses who have children, generally girls.
So that a fool might believe that in her house he was among respectable women!" They had reached the avenue of the Champs-Elysees.A gentle breeze softly stirred the leaves and touched the faces of passers-by, like the breaths of a giant fan, waving somewhere in the sky.Silent shadows wandered beneath the trees;others, on benches, made a dark spot.And these shadows spoke very low, as if they were telling each other important or shameful secrets.
"You can't imagine what a collection of fictitious titles are met in this lair," said Servigny, "By the way, I shall present you by the name of Count Saval; plain Saval would not do at all.""Oh, no, indeed!" cried his friend; "I would not have anyone think me capable of borrowing a title, even for an evening, even among those people.Ah, no!"Servigny began to laugh.
"How stupid you are! Why, in that set they call me the Duke de Servigny.I don't know how nor why.But at any rate the Duke de Servigny I am and shall remain, without complaining or protesting.
