ur of his existence; she made the acquaintance of his entire circle
of friends; she loathed Loulou, she adored Schrotter, she went into
raptures over gentle, refined Bhani, she smiled at Paul Haber and his
well-dressed Malvine, and her inventive grandmamma; she determined to
send good Frau Muller (who had looked after Wilhelm for ten years like
a mother) a beautiful Christmas present. She could make personal
remarks on all his friends and acquaintances, and her only trouble was
that she knew no German. What would she not have given to be able to
read the letters he wrote or received, to converse with him in his
mother-tongue! She loved and admired the French language, which,
although she retained the ineradicable accent of her country, she spoke
as fluently as Spanish; but now, for the first time, she felt something
akin to hatred against it for being the one remaining
barrier--certainly a very slight and scarcely perceptible one--between
herself and Wilhelm, which forever drew his attention to the fact that
she was not naturally a part of his life, and prevented their absolute
union, the growing together of their souls. She therefore determined to
learn German as soon as she returned to Paris, and, if need be, to stay
for some length of time in Germany in order to master the language
quickly and thoroughly.

She thought and spoke much of the future, and in all her dreams, plans,
and resolves Wilhelm was always, and as a matter of course, the central
figure and sharer of her life. In him her life found its consummation
she had him fast, and would never let him go.

Her love was a curious mixture of ardent passion and melting,
sentimental tenderness. At one moment the Bacchante, drinking long
draughts of love and life from his lips, at another, the innocent girl
who sought and found a chaste felicity in the mere rapturous
contemplation of the man she adored. The longer she knew him, the
deeper she penetrated into his character, the more did the Bacchante
recede and yield her place to the Psyche. The allegory of Wilhelm's
pastel seemed wrong, her own drawing right. She was no bloodthirsty
Sphinx revelling in human victims, but a harmless little cat purring
against the side of the young god. She was diffident, eager to learn,
slow to contradict. She broke herself of her paradoxes, and concealed
her originality. She liked best to listen while he talked. He must
explain everything to her, enlarge her experience, correct and