satisfied," he said to himself.

"What are you thinking about?"

"You!"

She sighed. Then, "What time is it?"

"Half past ten."

"I must go. He is waiting for me. No, don't say anything--"

She passed her hands over her cheeks. He seized her gently by the waist
and kissed her, holding her thus enlaced until they were at the door.

"You will come again soon, won't you?"

"Yes.... Yes."

He returned to the fireside.

"Oof! it's done," he thought, in a whirl of confused emotions. His
vanity was satisfied, his selfesteem was no longer bleeding, he had
attained his ends and possessed this woman. Moreover, her spell over him
had lost its force. He was regaining his entire liberty of mind, but who
could tell what trouble this liaison had yet in store for him? Then, in
spite of everything, he softened.

After all, what could he reproach her with? She loved as well as she
could. She was, indeed, ardent and plaintive. Even this dualism of a
mistress who was a low cocotte in bed and a fine lady when dressed--or
no, too intelligent to be called a fine lady--was a delectable pimento.
Her carnal appetites were excessive and bizarre. What, then, was the
matter with him?

And at last he quite justly accused himself. It was his own fault if
everything was spoiled. He lacked appetite. He was not really tormented
except by a cerebral erethism. He was used up in body, filed away in
soul, inept at love, weary of tendernesses even before he received them
and disgusted when he had. His heart was dead and could not be revived.
And his mania for thinking, thinking! previsualizing an incident so
vividly that actual enactment was an anticlimax--but probably would not
be if his mind would leave him alone and not be always jeering at his
efforts. For a man in his state of spiritual impoverishment all, save
art, was but a recreation more or less boring, a diversion more or less
vain. "Ah, poor woman, I am afraid she is going to get pretty sick of
me. If only she would consent to come no more! But no, she doesn't
deserve to be treated in that fashion," and, seized by pity, he swore to
himself that the next time she visited him he would caress her and try
to persuade her that the disillusion which he had so ill concealed did
not exist.

He tried to spread up the bed, get the tousled blankets together, and
plump the pillows, then he lay down.

He put out his lamp. In the darkness his distress increased. With death
in his heart he sa