She offered De Marsay some letters, in which the young man saw, with
surprise, strange figures, similar to those of a rebus, traced in
blood, and illustrating phrases full of passion.
"But," he cried, marveling at these hieroglyphics created by the
alertness of jealousy, "you are in the power of an infernal genius?"
"Infernal," she repeated.
"But how, then, were you able to get out?"
"Ah!" she said, "that was my ruin. I drove Dona Concha to choose
between the fear of immediate death and anger to be. I had the
curiosity of a demon, I wished to break the bronze circle which they
had described between creation and me, I wished to see what young
people were like, for I knew nothing of man except the Marquis and
Cristemio. Our coachman and the lackey who accompanies us are old
men. . . ."
"But you were not always thus shut up? Your health . . . ?"
"Ah," she answered, "we used to walk, but it was at night and in the
country, by the side of the Seine, away from people."
"Are you not proud of being loved like that?"
"No," she said, "no longer. However full it be, this hidden life is
but darkness in comparison with the light."
"What do you call the light?"
"Thee, my lovely Adolphe! Thee, for whom I would give my life. All the
passionate things that have been told me, and that I have inspired, I
feel for thee! For a certain time I understood nothing of existence,
but now I know what love is, and hitherto I have been the loved one
only; for myself, I did not love.
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