I listened, and I gazed at Marguerite with admiration. When I thought
that this marvellous creature, whose feet I had once longed to kiss, was
willing to let me take my place in her thoughts, my part in her life,
and that I was not yet content with what she gave me, I asked if man's
desire has indeed limits when, satisfied as promptly as mine had been,
it reached after something further.
"Truly," she continued, "we poor creatures of chance have fantastic
desires and inconceivable loves. We give ourselves now for one thing,
now for another. There are men who ruin themselves without obtaining
the least thing from us; there are others who obtain us for a bouquet of
flowers. Our hearts have their caprices; it is their one distraction
and their one excuse. I gave myself to you sooner than I ever did to
any man, I swear to you; and do you know why? Because when you saw me
spitting blood you took my hand; because you wept; because you are the
only human being who has ever pitied me. I am going to say a mad thing
to you: I once had a little dog who looked at me with a sad look when
I coughed; that is the only creature I ever loved. When he died I cried
more than when my mother died. It is true that for twelve years of her
life she used to beat me. Well, I loved you all at once, as much as my
dog. If men knew what they can have for a tear, they would be better
loved and we should be less ruinous to them.
"Your letter undeceived me; it showed me that you lacked the
intelligence of the heart; it did you more harm with me than anything
you could possibly have done. It was jealousy certainly, but ironical
and impertinent jealousy. I was already feeling sad when I received your
letter. I was looking forward to seeing you at twelve, to having lunch
with you, and wiping out, by seeing you, a thought which was with
me incessantly, and which, before I knew you, I had no difficulty in
tolerating.
"Then," continued Marguerite, "you were the only person before whom it
seemed to me, from the first, that I could think and speak freely. All
those who come about women like me have an interest in calculating
their slightest words, in thinking of the consequences of their most
insignificant actions. Naturally we have no friends. We have selfish
lovers who spend their fortunes, riot on us, as they say, but on their
own vanity. For these people we have to be merry when they are merry,
well when they want to sup, sceptics like themselves. We are not allowed
to have hearts, under penalty of being hooted down and of ruining our
credit.