by the battle they had all been fighting against drowsiness, suddenly
awoke. All, men and women alike, seemed accustomed to that strange
life, that constant round of pleasures, that artistic energy, which
makes of life one never ending _fete_, where laughter reigns,
unchecked by fear of the future. The sculptor's companion was the only
one who seemed out of spirits.

"'Are you ill?' Sarrasine asked her. 'Would you prefer to go home?'

"'I am not strong enough to stand all this dissipation,' she replied.
'I have to be very careful; but I feel so happy with you! Except for
you, I should not have remained to this supper; a night like this
takes away all my freshness.'

"'You are so delicate!' rejoined Sarrasine, gazing in rapture at the
charming creature's dainty features.

"'Dissipation ruins my voice.'

"'Now that we are alone,' cried the artist, 'and that you no longer
have reason to fear the effervescence of my passion, tell me that you
love me.'

"'Why?' said she; 'for what good purpose? You think me pretty. But
you are a Frenchman, and your fancy will pass away. Ah! you would not
love me as I should like to be loved.'

"'How?'

"'Purely, with no mingling of vulgar passion. I abhor men even more,