ascended. He desired to possess again the woman who was leaving him and
who would never return. He drew her to him. He desired her, with all
the strength of his animal nature. She resisted with all the force of
her will, which was free and on the alert. She disengaged herself,
crumpled, torn, without even having been afraid.

He understood that everything was useless; he realized she was no longer
for him, because she belonged to another. As his suffering returned, he
pushed her out of the door.

She remained a moment in the corridor, proudly waiting for a word.

But he shouted again, "Go!" and shut the door violently.

On the Via Alfieri, she saw again the pavilion in the rear of the
courtyard where pale grasses grew. She found it silent and tranquil,
faithful, with its goats and nymphs, to the lovers of the time of the
Grand Duchess Eliza. She felt at once freed from the painful, brutal
world, and transported to ages wherein she had not known the sadness of
life. At the foot of the stairs, the steps of which were covered with
roses, Dechartre was waiting. She threw herself in his arms. He carried
her inert, like a precious trophy before which he had become pallid and
trembling. She enjoyed, her eyelids half closed, the superb humiliation
of being a beautiful prey. Her fatigue, her sadness, her disgust with
the day, the reminiscence of violence, her regained liberty, the need of
forgetting, remains of fright, everything vivified, awakened her
tenderness. She threw her arms around the neck of her lover.

They were as gay as children. They laughed, said tender nothings,
played, ate lemons, oranges, and other fruits piled up near-them on