CHAPTER 8. THE UTILITY OF WINDOWS WHICH OPEN ON THE RIVER.
(continued)
"I do not love him!" exclaimed the unhappy child, and at
the same time she clung to the captain, whom she drew to a
seat beside her. "I do not love thee, my Phoebus? What
art thou saying, wicked man, to break my heart? Oh, take
me! take all! do what you will with me, I am thine. What
matters to me the amulet! What matters to me my mother!
'Tis thou who art my mother since I love thee! Phoebus,
my beloved Phoebus, dost thou see me? 'Tis I. Look at me;
'tis the little one whom thou wilt surely not repulse, who
comes, who comes herself to seek thee. My soul, my life, my
body, my person, all is one thing--which is thine, my captain.
Well, no! We will not marry, since that displeases thee; and
then, what am I? a miserable girl of the gutters; whilst
thou, my Phoebus, art a gentleman. A fine thing, truly! A
dancer wed an officer! I was mad. No, Phoebus, no; I will be
thy mistress, thy amusement, thy pleasure, when thou wilt;
a girl who shall belong to thee. I was only made for that,
soiled, despised, dishonored, but what matters it?--beloved.
I shall be the proudest and the most joyous of women. And
when I grow old or ugly, Phoebus, when I am no longer good
to love you, you will suffer me to serve you still. Others
will embroider scarfs for you; 'tis I, the servant, who will
care for them. You will let me polish your spurs, brush your
doublet, dust your riding-boots. You will have that pity,
will you not, Phoebus? Meanwhile, take me! here, Phoebus,
all this belongs to thee, only love me! We gypsies need only
air and love."
So saying, she threw her arms round the officer's neck; she
looked up at him, supplicatingly, with a beautiful smile, and
all in tears. Her delicate neck rubbed against his cloth
doublet with its rough embroideries. She writhed on her
knees, her beautiful body half naked. The intoxicated captain
pressed his ardent lips to those lovely African shoulders.
The young girl, her eyes bent on the ceiling, as she leaned
backwards, quivered, all palpitating, beneath this kiss.
All at once, above Phoebus's head she beheld another head;
a green, livid, convulsed face, with the look of a lost soul;
near this face was a hand grasping a poniard.--It was the
face and hand of the priest; he had broken the door and he
was there. Phoebus could not see him. The young girl
remained motionless, frozen with terror, dumb, beneath that
terrible apparition, like a dove which should raise its head
at the moment when the hawk is gazing into her nest with its
round eyes.