She said that whatever I
saw in her room that pleased my taste, whatever bagatelle on her table
attracted my attention, she would give me; that whatever she did in the
future, in the morning, in the evening, at any hour, I should regulate as
I pleased; that the judgments of the world did not concern her; that if
she had appeared to care for them, it was only to send me away; but that
she wished to be happy and close her ears; that she was thirty years of
age and had not long to be loved by me. "And you will love me a long
time? Are those fine words with which you have beguiled me, true?" And
then, loving reproaches because I had been late in coming to her; that
she had put on her slippers in order that I might see her foot but that
she was no longer beautiful; that she could wish she were; that she was,
at fifteen. She went here and there, silly with love, crimson with joy;
and she did not know what to imagine, what to say or do, in order to give
herself and all that she had.
I was lying on the sofa; I felt, at every word she spoke, a bad hour of
my past life slipping away from me. I watched the star of love rising in
my sky, and it seemed to me I was like a tree filled with sap that shakes
off its dry leaves in order to attire itself in new foliage.
She sat down at the piano and told me she was going to play an air by
Stradella. I love more than all else, sacred music, and that morceau
which she sang for me a number of times, gave me great pleasure.
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