to take refuge in friendship. The
world is a desert to me. I am an accursed creature, doomed to understand
happiness, to feel it, to desire it, and like many, many others,
compelled to see it always fly from me. Remember, signor, that I have
not deceived you. I forbid you to love me. I can be a devoted friend
to you, for I admire your strength of will and your character. I need a
brother, a protector. Be both of these to me, but nothing more.'

"'And not love you!' cried Sarrasine; 'but you are my life, my
happiness, dear angel!'

"'If I should say a word, you would spurn me with horror.'

"'Coquette! nothing can frighten me. Tell me that you will cost me my
whole future, that I shall die two months hence, that I shall be damned
for having kissed you but once----'

"And he kissed her, despite La Zambinella's efforts to avoid that
passionate caress.

"'Tell me that you are a demon, that I must give you my fortune, my
name, all my renown! Would you have me cease to be a sculptor? Speak.'

"'Suppose I were not a woman?' queried La Zambinella, timidly, in a
sweet, silvery voice.

"'A merry jest!' cried Sarrasine. 'Think you that you can deceive
an artist's eye? Have I not, for ten days past, admired, examined,
devoured, thy perfections? None but a woman can have this soft
and beautifully rounded arm, these graceful outlines. Ah! you seek
compliments!'

"She smiled sadly, and murmured:

"'Fatal beauty!'

"She raised her eyes to the sky. At that moment, there was in her eyes
an indefinable expression of horror, so startling, so intense, that
Sarrasine shuddered.

"'Signor Frenchman,' she continued, 'forget forever a moment's madness.
I esteem you, but as for love, do not ask me for that; that sentiment is
suffocated in my heart. I have no heart!' she cried, weeping bitterly.
'The stage on which you saw me, the applause, the music, the renown to
which I am condemned--those are my life; I have no other. A few hours
hence you will no longer look upon me with the same eyes, the woman you
love will be dead.'

"The sculptor did not reply. He was seized with a dull rage which
contracted his heart. He could do nothing but gaze at that extraordinary
woman, with inflamed, burning eyes. That feeble voice, La Zambinella's
attitude, manners, and gestures, instinct with dejection, melancholy,
and discouragement, reawakened in his soul all the treasures of passion.
Each word was a spur. At that moment, they arrived at Frasc