It appeared
singular to me that, seeing my embarrassment, she did not rearrange it,
and I turned my head to give her an opportunity. She did nothing. Finally
meeting her eyes and seeing that she was perfectly aware of the state she
was in, I felt as though I had been struck by a thunderbolt, for I
clearly understood that I was the plaything of her monstrous effrontery,
that grief itself was for her but a means of seducing the senses. I took
my hat without a word, bowed profoundly and left the room.
CHAPTER VII
UPON returning to my apartments I found a large box in the center of the
room. One of my aunts had died and I was one of the heirs to her fortune,
which was not large. The box contained, among other things, a number of
musty old books. Not knowing what to do and being affected with ennui, I
began to read one of them. They were for the most part romances of the
time of Louis XV; my pious aunt had probably inherited them herself and
never read them, for they were, so to speak, catechisms of vice.
I was singularly disposed to reflect on everything that came to my
notice, to give everything a mental and moral significance; I treated
events as pearls in a necklace which I tried to string together.
It struck me that there was something significant about the arrival of
these books at this time. I devoured them with a bitterness and a sadness
born of despair. "Yes, you are right," I said to myself, "you alone
possess the secret of life, you alone dare to say that nothing is true
and real but debauchery, hypocrisy and corruption.
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