Americans -- France -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Paris (France) -- Fiction; Psychological fiction; Young men -- Fiction
It drew out her long look, and he soon enough saw why. A spasm came
into her face, the tears she had already been unable to hide overflowed
at first in silence, and then, as the sound suddenly comes from a
child, quickened to gasps, to sobs. She sat and covered her face with
her hands, giving up all attempt at a manner. “It’s how you see me,
it’s how you see me”—she caught her breath with it—“and it’s as I _am_,
and as I must take myself, and of course it’s no matter.” Her emotion
was at first so incoherent that he could only stand there at a loss,
stand with his sense of having upset her, though of having done it by
the truth. He had to listen to her in a silence that he made no
immediate effort to attenuate, feeling her doubly woeful amid all her
dim diffused elegance; consenting to it as he had consented to the
rest, and even conscious of some vague inward irony in the presence of
such a fine free range of bliss and bale. He couldn’t say it was _not_
no matter; for he was serving her to the end, he now knew, anyway—quite
as if what he thought of her had nothing to do with it. It was actually
moreover as if he didn’t think of her at all, as if he could think of
nothing but the passion, mature, abysmal, pitiful, she represented, and
the possibilities she betrayed. She was older for him to-night, visibly
less exempt from the touch of time; but she was as much as ever the
finest and subtlest creature, the happiest apparition, it had been
given him, in all his years, to meet; and yet he could see her there as
vulgarly troubled, in very truth, as a maidservant crying for her young
man. The only thing was that she judged herself as the maidservant
wouldn’t; the weakness of which wisdom too, the dishonour of which
judgement, seemed but to sink her lower. Her collapse, however, no
doubt, was briefer and she had in a manner recovered herself before he
intervened. “Of course I’m afraid for my life. But that’s nothing. It
isn’t that.”
He was silent a little longer, as if thinking what it might be.
“There’s something I have in mind that I can still do.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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