"Is it not curious? Are you, then, still a poor little slave?" Then he had lapsed into silence. And the rest of the day passed off, half in enervation, half in silence, which was also an enervation, and more painful. In the evening, after dinner, the storm at last broke out. The wind began to blow violently, the waves to beat against the embankment with a heavy sullen sound. M. Georges would not go to bed. He felt that it would be impossible for him to sleep, and in a bed sleepless nights are so long! He on his long chair, I sitting near a little table on which, veiled by a shade, was burning a lamp that shed a soft, pink light about us, we said nothing. Although his eyes were more brilliant than usual, M. Georges seemed calmer, and the pink reflection from the lamp heightened his color, and outlined more clearly in the light the features of his delicate and charming face. I was engaged in sewing. Suddenly he said to me: "Leave your work for a little while, Célestine, and sit beside me." I always obeyed his desires, his caprices. At times he manifested an effusive and enthusiastic friendship, which I attributed to gratitude. This time I obeyed as usual. "Nearer, still nearer," he exclaimed. Then: "Now give me your hand." Without the slightest mistrust I allowed him to take my hand, which he caressed. "How pretty your hand is! And how pretty your eyes are! And how pretty you are, altogether, altogether, altogether!" He had often spoken to me of my kindness, but never had he told me that I was pretty; at least, he had never told me so with such an air. Surprised and, in reality, charmed by these words, which he uttered in a grave and somewhat gasping voice, I instinctively drew back. "No, no, do not go away; stay near me, close to me. You cannot know how much good it does me to have you near me, how it warms me. See, I am no longer nervous, agitated; I am no longer sick; I am content, happy, very happy." And, having chastely placed his arm about my waist, he obliged me to sit down beside him on the long chair. And he asked: "Are you uncomfortable so?" I was not reassured. In his eyes burned a fire more ardent than ever. His voice trembled more--with that trembling which I know,--oh! yes, how I know it!--that trembling which is given to the voice of all men by the violent desire of love. I was very much moved, and I was very cowardly; my head was whirling a little. But, firmly resolved to defend myself against him, and especially to energetically defend him against himself, I answered in a childish way: "Yes, Monsieur Georges, I am very uncomfortable; let me get up." His arm did not leave my waist. "No, no, I beg of you, be nice." And in a tone the coaxing gentleness of which I cannot describe, he added: "You are very timid. What are you afraid of, then?" At the same time he approached his face to mine, and I felt his warm breath with its insipid odor,--something like an incense of death.