"
"Who is it?" she asked.
"Smith."
She placed her hand on her lips and turned aside. I could say no more; we
were both pensive, our eyes fixed on the floor.
"Listen to me," she began with an effort. "I have suffered much, I call
to heaven to bear me witness that I would give my life for you. So long
as the faintest gleam of hope remains, I am ready to suffer anything;
but, although I may rouse your anger in saying to you that I am a woman,
I am, nevertheless, a woman, my friend. We can not go beyond the limits
of human endurance. Beyond a certain point I will not answer for the
consequences. All I can do at this moment is to get down on my knees
before you and beseech you not to go away."
She knelt down as she spoke. I arose.
"Fool that I am!" I muttered bitterly, "fool to try to get the truth from
a woman! He who undertakes such a task will earn naught but derision and
will deserve it! Truth! Only he who sorts with chamber-maids knows it,
only he who steals to their pillow and listens to the unconscious
utterance of a dream, hears it. He alone knows it, who makes a woman of
himself and initiates himself into the secrets of her cult of
inconstancy! But the man who asks for it openly, he who opens a loyal
hand to receive that frightful alms, he will never obtain it! They are on
guard with him; for reply, he receives a shrug of the shoulders, and, if
he rouses himself in his impatience, they rise in righteous indignation
like an outraged vestal, while there falls from their lips the great
feminine oracle that suspicion destroys love, and they refuse to pardon
an accusation which they are unable to meet.
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