"Yes," replied Yourii, bitterly, finding a certain pleasure in lashing
his own sins, though conscious that he, Yourii, was absolutely
different from other men. "Yes; that is one of the most monstrously
unjust things in the world. Ask any one of us if he would like to
marry" (he was going to say "a whore," but substituted) "a cocotte,
and he will always tell you 'No.' But in what respect is a man really
any better than a cocotte? She sells herself at least for money, to
earn a living, whereas a man simply gives rein to his lust in wanton
and shameless fashion."
Lialia was silent.
A bat darted backwards and forwards beneath the balcony, unseen, struck
the wall repeatedly with its wings and then, with faint fluttering,
vanished. Yourii listened to all these strange noises of the night, and
then he continued speaking with increasing bitterness. The very of his
voice drew him on.
"The worst of it is that not only do they all know this, and tacitly
agree that it must be so, but they enact complete tragi-comedies,
allowing themselves to become betrothed, and then lying to God and man.
It is always the purest and most innocent girls, too," (he was thinking
jealously of Sina Karsavina) "who become the prey of the vilest
debauchees, tainted physically and morally. Semenoff once said to me,
'the purer the woman, the filthier the man who possesses her,' and he
was right."
"Is that true?" asked Lialia, in a strange tone.
"Yes, most assuredly it is." Yourii smiled bitterly.
"I know nothing--nothing about it," faltered Lialia, with tears in her
voice.
"What?" cried Yourii, for he had not heard her remark.
"Surely Tolia is not like the rest? It's impossible."
She had never spoken of him by his pet name to Yourii before. Then, all
at once, she began to weep.
Touched by her distress, Yourii seized her hand.
"Lialia! Lialitschka! What's the matter? I didn't mean to--Come, come,
my dear little Lialia, don't cry!" he stammered, as he pulled her hands
away from her face and kissed her little wet fingers.
"No! It's true! I know it is!" she sobbed.
Although she had said that she had thought about this, it was in fact
pure imagination on her part, for of Riasantzeff's intimate life she
had never yet formed the slightest conception. Of course she knew that
she was not his first love, and she understood what that meant, though
the impression upon her mind had been a vague and never a permanent
one.