As a matter of fact I imagine they would have used our clearing--I'm
glad they didn't.
That night after dinner she played to me, first Beethoven and then
Chopin. I can see her as I write; she had just finished the 14th
Prelude and, resting her chin on her hand, she smiled mysteriously at
me.
The hour had come, and, driven by strong impulses, I spoke. I told her
that I loved her as I had never thought that a man could love a woman;
I told her that I longed to shield her and protect her, and above all
things to remove her from the clutches of that bestial Colonel, and as
I bent over her and felt my senses swim in the subtleties of her
perfume, I begged her passionately to say the word that would give me
the right to fight the world on her behalf.
When I had finished she was silent for a long while, and I can remember
distinctly that I wondered whether she could hear the thump! thump!
thump! of my heart, which to my agitated mind seemed to beat with the
strength of a hammer.
At length she spoke; two words came slowly from her lips:
"I cannot."
I was not discouraged. I could see, I could feel, that a tremendous
struggle was raging, the outward signs of which were concealed by her
averted head.
At length I asked her point-blank whether she loved me. Her silence
gave me my answer, and I took her unresisting body into my arms and
kissed her to distraction. Oh! these kisses, how bitter they seem to me
now, and yet how I long to hold her once again.
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