to you a mind newer to love than is mine. That I swear to you. The
years that were spent without you--I did not live! Let us not talk of
them. There is nothing in them of which I should be ashamed. To regret
them is another thing. I regret to have known you so late. Why did you
not come sooner? You could have known me five years ago as easily as to-
day. But, believe me, we should not tire ourselves with speaking of time
that has gone. Remember Lohengrin. If you love me, I am for you like
the swan's knight. I have asked nothing of you. I have wanted to know
nothing. I have not chided you about Mademoiselle Jeanne Tancrede.
I saw you loved me, that you were suffering, and it was enough--because
I loved you."

"A woman can not be jealous in the same manner as a man, nor feel what
makes us suffer."

"I do not know that. Why can not she?"

"Why? Because there is not in the blood, in the flesh of a woman that
absurd and generous fury for ownership, that primitive instinct of which
man has made a right. Man is the god who wants his mate to himself.
Since time immemorial woman is accustomed to sharing men's love. It is
the past, the obscure past, that determines our passions. We are already
so old when we are born! Jealousy, for a woman, is only a wound to her
own self-love. For a man it is a torture as profound as moral suffering,
as continuous as physical suffering. You ask the reason why? Because,
in spite of my submission and of my respect, in spite of the alarm you
cause me, you are matter and I am the idea; you are the thing and I am
the mind; you are the clay and I am the artisan. Do not complain of
this. Near the perfect amphora, surrounded with garlands, what is the
rude and humble potter? The amphora is tranquil and beautiful; he is