No. No. No.—It is she, none but she … she beyond all doubt. Now I know; and my knowledge is hell to me. Yes, I know all.
Ah! but she is fair, divinely fair! All the potency of the senses, all the exquisite refinements of art have come together to create this irresistible glamour that she spreads around her. No, no—not a word! Those eyes, so amazing in their fairy-like beauty, and the long lashes that fringe them—those drowsy yet unfathomable eyes, like those of her whom King Cophetua loved so well! Yes, and it is her mouth, too—that wondrous, wondrous mouth, now pale and wan through excess of delights, either felt or known in dreams only.—But, Heavens! I can see this mouth pressed close to that other mouth, sweet beyond all sweetness—that mouth fragrant with its terrible death-bringing scent, its scent as of withered roses! …
This—this is death!
Not so. Oh, no, it is not death: this is Life! Understand the truth.—It is life; behold it now: life in very deed.
You see now?—All is clear. It was for that reason that Czolhanski was awaiting him here. It was for that reason that he wished you not to come, and that, because you came, he stayed away.
Is—is not this yet Death?
No. It is Life: Life that, out of the accents of that voice, supremely melodious, drowsy, sleepy, yet replete with fire from an unfathomable abyss, out of the lazy, lascivious snaky curves of those limbs of hers; out of those glossy shoulders, so shapely, so slenderly fashioned, and of those outstretched naked arms, in hue like pale dead gold, has come forth towards you in all its hostile might!
Gina, lost in dreary amazement, was staring at me.
“What ails you? … Had we not better get away from here?”
We were both of us presently standing, frantic with pain, in the street which, lit up by the flaring windows of the great hall, was as bright as day.
“Let us go away—away!—Home? On no account.—Get drunk somewhere—lose my senses—shed someone’s blood. …”
I was raving like one in a delirium.
“I beg you, Gina, come, come along—I can’t bear any more!” I stammered.
She hesitated. “Unescorted and alone—to a night-restaurant?”
“What does it matter?”
“Better have made an appointment—somewhere—with Mr. Imszanski. …”
Then I burst into laughter. “Unescorted? Ha, ha, ha!” I roared, as we got into a four-wheeler. “Forgive me, but even so—I fancy neither of us has much to lose!
“To Lipka’s? I will not. No, I entreat you. No memories of things gone by—A hotel, any hotel!—or a first-rate night-restaurant.—Fast! As fast as horses can go! Faster, faster!”
Off they went, the great black half-starved horses. A few streetlamps flashed by in the dark night. A few jolts from the rubber-tired wheels made us sway about: and again it is all bright around. Oh! how I am tortured!
A cold blast blows, muddy pools splash, a drizzling rain sets in. … Oh, yes, yes; all this is very real: fact, not fiction.
Now a brilliantly lit doorway is before us; now a staircase, adorned with flowers and mirrors. …
Gina was eyeing me in astonishment, but she said not one word. She no doubt could not guess what had come over me; but, in her state of mind, the strangest occurrence must have seemed quite commonplace. And then, she no longer felt so much alone in her distress; beside my madness her state of tearful dejection seemed but a small matter.
The great saloon was filled as usual with specimens of the jeunesse dorée, with financiers, and with courtesans. We attracted a good deal of attention. I had assumed the gay mien of a girl desperately bent on fun, and looked about on all sides, with lively glances at everybody.—Several men spoke to me.
In the passage on to which the doors of the private supper-rooms opened, we were met by a young but full-grown satyr, who slipped his arm under mine, and looked into my face. And yet I did not cease to laugh. It was revenge I craved—debauch—oblivion of all!
Gina’s terrified looks were expostulating with me.
“We have nothing to lose,” I returned to their speechless appeal. And thereupon she too fell a-laughing strangely.
The creature whose arm was in mine kept chattering incessantly … about I know not what. A waiter respectfully opened the door of a small private room, and we all three went in.
“I presume, ladies, you have been at the play?” our gentleman inquired, having remarked the dresses we wore.
“Ha, ha!” I answered. “Right you are. Been at one play, and come to another.” There was not less coarse ribaldry in my tones than in my words.
“That’s first-rate.—The bill of fare, waiter!—What will you take?”
“To eat, nothing. We want to drink, to drink, to drink!”
“Very good!” he exclaimed, in a tone of pleased surprise. “Coffee and liqueur—cognac—champagne?”
“All right: anything and everything, my dear man!”
Several bottles were standing on the table. Our companion, having leisurely prepared a mayonnaise, set to munching the lobster with great relish, showing his white teeth in a grin.—Gina drank, but was mute.—I babbled incessantly, endeavouring to pass for a cocotte. We were a puzzle to the young man nevertheless, and his behaviour towards us was lacking in assurance.
“Do you know, Madame,” he at last blurted out, addressing me, “it will be better fun if we make a quartette. … I have an acquaintance in the saloon here: a capital
