The man accompanied her to the carriage. The light of the lamp fell full and glaringly upon an infinitely young, soft and dreamy face which I had never before seen, and played in his long, blond curls. She held out her hand which he kissed with deep respect, then she signaled to me, and immediately the carriage flew along the leafy wall which follows the river like a long green screen. * * * * * The bell at the garden-gate rings. It is a familiar face. The man from the Cascine. “Whom shall I announce?” I ask him in French. He timidly shakes his head. “Do you, perhaps, understand some German?” he asks shyly. “Yes. Your name, please.” “Oh! I haven’t any yet,” he replies, embarrassed—“Tell your mistress the German painter from the Cascine is here and would like—but there she is herself.” Wanda had stepped out on the balcony, and nodded toward the stranger. “Gregor, show the gentleman in!” she called to me. I showed the painter the stairs. “Thanks, I’ll find her now, thanks, thanks very much.” He ran up the steps. I remained standing below, and looked with deep pity on the poor German. Venus in Furs has caught his soul in the red snares of hair. He will paint her, and go mad. * * * * * It is a sunny winter’s day. Something that looks like gold trembles on the leaves of the clusters of trees down below in the green level of the meadow. The camelias at the foot of the gallery are glorious in their abundant buds. Wanda is sitting in the loggia; she is drawing. The German painter stands opposite her with his hands folded as in adoration, and looks at her. No, he rather looks at her face, and is entirely absorbed in it, enraptured. But she does not see him, neither does she see me, who with the spade in my hand am turning over the flower-bed, solely that I may see her and feel her nearness, which produces an effect on me like poetry, like music. * * * * * The painter has gone. It is a hazardous thing to do, but I risk it. I go up to the gallery, quite close, and ask Wanda “Do you love the painter, mistress?” She looks at me without getting angry, shakes her head, and finally even smiles. “I feel sorry for him,” she replies, “but I do not love him. I love no one. _I used to love you, as ardently, as passionately, as deeply as it was possible for me to love,_ but now I don’t love even you any more; my heart is a void, dead, and this makes me sad.” “Wanda!” I exclaimed, deeply moved. “Soon, you too will no longer love me,” she continued, “tell me when you have reached that point, and I will give back to you your freedom.” “Then I shall remain your slave, all my life long, for I adore you and shall always adore you,” I cried, seized by that fanaticism of love which has repeatedly been so fatal to me.