inhale the fragrant powder with which her hair was covered, to see the
slightest inequalities of her face, to count the blue veins which
threaded their way beneath the satiny skin. And that fresh, brisk
voice of silvery _timbre_, flexible as a thread to which the faintest
breath of air gives form, which it rolls and unrolls, tangles and
blows away, that voice attacked his heart so fiercely that he more
than once uttered an involuntary exclamation, extorted by the
convulsive ecstasy too rarely evoked by human passions. He was soon
obliged to leave the theatre. His trembling legs almost refused to
bear him. He was prostrated, weak, like a nervous man who has given
way to a terrible burst of anger. He had had such exquisite pleasure,
or perhaps had suffered so, that his life had flowed away like water
from an overturned vessel. He felt a void within him, a sense of
goneness like the utter lack of strength which discourages a
convalescent just recovering from a serious sickness. Overwhelmed by
inexplicable melancholy, he sat down on the steps of a church. There,
with his back resting against a pillar, he lost himself in a fit of
meditation as confused as a dream. Passion had dealt him a crushing
blow. On his return to his apartments he was seized by one of those
paroxysms of activity which reveal to us the presence of new
principles in our existence. A prey to that first fever of love which
resembles pain as much as pleasure, he sought to defeat his impatience
and his frenzy by sketching La Zambinella from memory. It was a sort
of material meditation. Upon one leaf La Zambinella appeared in that
pose, apparently calm and cold, affected by Raphael, Georgione, and
all the great painters. On another, she was coyly turning her head as
she finished a roulade, and seemed to be listening to herself.
Sarrasine drew his mistress in all poses: he drew her unveiled,
seated, standing, reclining, chaste, and amorous--interpreting, thanks
to the delirious activity of his pencil, all the fanciful ideas which