She pushed him toward it, and at the first step in
the narrow and dark passageway embraced him, turning her back on the
movement and light in the great street, in order to kiss him with that
kiss which always made the captain's knees tremble.

Although his temper was soothed, he continued complaining during the
rest of the stroll. How many had preceded him?... He must know. He
wished to know, no matter how horrible the knowledge might be. It was
the delight of the jealous who persist in scratching open the wound.

"I want to know you," he repeated. "I ought to know you, since you
belong to me. I have the right!..."

This right recalled with childish obstinacy made Freya smile
dolorously. Long centuries of experience appeared to peep out from the
melancholy curl of her lips. In her gleamed the wisdom of the woman,
more cautious and foresighted than that of the man, since love was her
only preoccupation.

"Why do you wish to know?" she asked discouragingly. "How much further
could you go on that?... Would you perchance be any happier when you
did know?..."

She was silent for some steps and then said as though disclosing a
secret:

"In order to love, it is not necessary for us to know one another.
Quite the contrary. A little bit of mystery keeps up the illusion and
dispells monotony.... He who wishes to know is never happy."

She continued talking. Truth perhaps was a good thing in other phases
of existence, but it was fatal to love. It was too strong, too crude.
Love was like certain women, beautiful as goddesses under a discreet
and artificial light, but horrible as monsters under the burning
splendors of the sun.

"Believe me; put away these bugbears of the past. Is not the present
enough for you?... Are you not happy?"

And, trying to convince him that he was, she redoubled her exertions,
chaining Ulysses in bonds which were sweet yet weighed heavily upon
him. Strongly convinced of his vileness, he nevertheless adored and
detested this woman, with her tireless sensuality.... And it was
impossible to separate himself from her!...

Anxious to find some excuse, he recalled the image of his cook
philosophizing in his culinary dominion. Whenever he had wished to call
down the greatest of evils upon an enemy, the astute fellow had always
uttered this anathema:

"May God send you a female to your taste!..."

Ferragut had found the "female to his taste" and was forever slave of
his destiny. It would follow h