Then we began to walk up and down as we talked, and I must say that so
soon as my Spaniard had recovered himself he put forth the genuine
eloquence of the heart. It was not passion it breathed, but a
marvelous tenderness of feeling which he beautifully compared to the
divine love. His thrilling voice, which lent an added charm to
thoughts, in themselves so exquisite, reminded me of the nightingale's
note. He spoke low, using only the middle tones of a fine instrument,
and words flowed upon words with the rush of a torrent. It was the
overflow of the heart. "No more," I said, "or I shall not be able to tear myself away."
And with a gesture I dismissed him.
"You have committed yourself now, mademoiselle," said Griffith.
"In England that might be so, but not in France," I replied with
nonchalance. "I intend to make a love match, and am feeling my way
--that is all." You see, dear, as love did not come to me, I had to do as Mahomet did
with the mountain. Friday. Once more I have seen my slave.
He has become very timid, and puts on
an air of pious devotion, which I like, for it seems to say that he
feels my power and fascination in every fibre. But nothing in his look
or manner can rouse in these society sibyls any suspicion of the
boundless love which I see. Don't suppose though, dear, that I am
carried away, mastered, tamed; on the contrary, the taming, mastering,
and carrying away are on my side . . .
In short, I am quite capable of reason. Oh! to feel again the terror
of that fascination in which I was held by the schoolmaster, the
plebeian, the man I kept at a distance!
The fact is that love is of two kinds--one which commands, and one
which obeys. The two are quite distinct, and the passion to which the
one gives rise is not the passion of the other. To get her full of
life, perhaps a woman ought to have experience of both. Can the two
passions ever co-exist? Can the man in whom we inspire love inspire it
in us? Will the day ever come when Felipe is my master? Shall I
tremble then, as he does now? These are questions which make me
shudder.
He is very blind! In his place I should have thought Mlle. de
Chaulieu, meeting me under the limes, a cold, calculating coquette,
with starched manners. No, that is not love, it is playing with fire.
I am still fond of Felipe, but I am calm and at my ease with him now.
No more obstacles! What a terrible thought! It is all ebb-tide within,
and I fear to question my heart. His mistake was in concealing the
ardor of his love; he ought to have forced my self-control.