'
"'Suppose I were not a woman?' queried La Zambinella, timidly, in a
sweet, silvery voice.
"'A merry jest!' cried Sarrasine. 'Think you that you can deceive an
artist's eye? Have I not, for ten days past, admired, examined,
devoured, thy perfections? None but a woman can have this soft and
beautifully rounded arm, these graceful outlines. Ah! you seek
compliments!'
"She smiled sadly, and murmured:
"'Fatal beauty!'
"She raised her eyes to the sky. At that moment, there was in her eyes
an indefinable expression of horror, so startling, so intense, that
Sarrasine shuddered.
"'Signor Frenchman,' she continued, 'forget forever a moment's
madness. I esteem you, but as for love, do not ask me for that; that
sentiment is suffocated in my heart. I have no heart!' she cried,
weeping bitterly. 'The stage on which you saw me, the applause, the
music, the renown to which I am condemned--those are my life; I have
no other. A few hours hence you will no longer look upon me with the
same eyes, the woman you love will be dead.'
"The sculptor did not reply. He was seized with a dull rage which
contracted his heart. He could do nothing but gaze at that
extraordinary woman, with inflamed, burning eyes.
Pages:
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63