conversation on the grassy bank, the time of night, the moonlight--all
made me feel anxious. I was at the same time carried along by vanity,
by desire, and so distracted by thought, that I was too excited
perhaps to take notice of all that I was experiencing. And, while I
was overwhelmed with these mingled feelings, she continued talking to
me of the countess, and my silence confirmed the truth of all that she
chose to say about her. Nevertheless, certain passages in her talk
recalled me to myself.

"What an exquisite creature she is!" she was saying. "How graceful! On
her lips the utterances of treachery sound like witticism; an act of
infidelity seems the prompting of reason, a sacrifice to propriety;
while she is never reckless, she is always lovable; she is seldom
tender and never sincere; amorous by nature, prudish on principle;
sprightly, prudent, dexterous though utterly thoughtless, varied as
Proteus in her moods, but charming as the Graces in her manner; she
attracts but she eludes. What a number of parts I have seen her play!
_Entre nous_, what a number of dupes hang round her! What fun she has
made of the baron, what a life she has led the marquis! When she took
you, it was merely for the purpose of throwing the two rivals off the
scent; they were on the point of a rupture; for she had played with
them too long, and they had had time to see through her. But she
brought you on the scene. Their attention was called to you, she led
them to redouble their pursuit, she was in despair over you, she
pitied you, she consoled you-- Ah! how happy is a clever woman when in
such a game as this she professes to stake nothing of her own! But
yet, is this true happiness?"

This last phrase, accompanied by a significant sigh, was a
master-stroke. I felt as if a bandage had fallen from my eyes, without