darted into the salon. When
Sarrasine appeared, running after her, he was welcomed by a roar of
infernal laughter. He saw La Zambinella swooning on a sofa. She was very
pale, as if exhausted by the extraordinary effort she had made. Although
Sarrasine knew but little Italian, he understood his mistress when she
said to Vitagliani in a low voice:

"'But he will kill me!'

"This strange scene abashed the sculptor. His reason returned. He stood
still for a moment; then he recovered his speech, sat down beside his
mistress, and assured her of his profound respect. He found strength
to hold his passion in check while talking to her in the most exalted
strain; and, to describe his love, he displayed all the treasures of
eloquence--that sorcerer, that friendly interpreter, whom women rarely
refuse to believe. When the first rays of dawn surprised the boon
companions, some woman suggested that they go to Frascati. One and
all welcomed with loud applause the idea of passing the day at Villa
Ludovisi. Vitagliani went down to hire carriages. Sarrasine had the good
fortune to drive La Zambinella in a phaeton. When they had left Rome
behind, the merriment of the party, repressed for a moment by the battle
they had all been fighting against drowsiness, suddenly awoke. All, men
and women alike, seemed accustomed to that strange life, that constant
round of pleasures, that artistic energy, which makes of life one never
ending _fete_, where laughter reigns, unchecked by fear of the future.
The sculptor's companion was the only one who seemed out of spirits.

"'Are you ill?' Sarrasine asked her. 'Would you prefer to go home?'

"'I am not strong enough to stand all this dissipation,' she replied. 'I
have to be very careful; but I feel so happy with you! Except for you,
I should not have remained to this supper; a night like this takes away
all my freshness.'

"'You are so delicate!' rejoined Sarrasine, gazing in rapture at the
charming creature's dainty features.

"'Dissipation ruins my voice.'

"'Now that we are alone,' cried the artist, 'and that you no longer have
reason to fear the effervescence of my passion, tell me that you love
me.'

"'Why?' said she; 'for what good purpose? You think me pretty. But you
are a Frenchman, and your fancy will pass away. Ah! you would not love
me as I should like to be loved.'

"'How?'

"'Purely, with no mingling of vulgar passion. I abhor men even more,
perhaps than I hate women. I need