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“‘And not love you!’ cried Sarrasine; ‘but you are my life, my happiness, dear angel!’

“‘If I should say a word, you would spurn me with horror.’

“‘Coquette! nothing can frighten me. Tell me that you will cost me my whole future, that I shall die two months hence, that I shall be damned for having kissed you but once—-‘

“And he kissed her, despite La Zambinella’s efforts to avoid that passionate caress.

“‘Tell me that you are a demon, that I must give you my fortune, my name, all my renown! Would you have me cease to be a sculptor? Speak.’

“‘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. That feeble voice, La Zambinella’s attitude, manners, and gestures, instinct with dejection, melancholy, and discouragement, reawakened in his soul all the treasures of passion. Each word was a spur. At that moment, they arrived at Frascati. When the artist held out his arms to help his mistress to alight, he felt that she trembled from head to foot.

“‘What is the matter? You would kill me,’ he cried, seeing that she turned pale, ‘if you should suffer the slightest pain of which I am, even innocently, the cause.’

“‘A snake!’ she said, pointing to a reptile which was gliding along the edge of a ditch. ‘I am afraid of the disgusting creatures.’

“Sarrasine crushed the snake’s head with a blow of his foot.

“‘How could you dare to do it?’ said La Zambinella, gazing at the dead reptile with visible terror.

“‘Aha!’ said the artist, with a smile, ‘would you venture to say now that you are not a woman?’

“They joined their companions and walked through the woods of Villa Ludovisi, which at that time belonged to Cardinal Cicognara. The morning passed all too swiftly for the amorous sculptor, but it was crowded with incidents which laid bare to him the coquetry, the weakness, the daintiness, of that pliant, inert soul. She was a true woman with her sudden terrors, her unreasoning caprices, her instinctive worries, her causeless audacity, her bravado, and her fascinating delicacy of feeling. At one time, as the merry little party of singers ventured out into the open country, they saw at some distance a number of men armed to the teeth, whose costume was by no means reassuring. At the words, ‘Those are brigands!’ they all quickened their pace in order to reach the shelter of the wall enclosing the cardinal’s villa. At that critical moment Sarrasine saw from La Zambinella’s manner that she no longer had strength to walk; he took her in his arms and carried her for some distance, running. When he was within call of a vineyard near by, he set his mistress down.

“‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘why it is that this extreme weakness which in another woman would be hideous, would disgust me, so that the slightest indication of it would be enough to destroy my love,–why is it that in you it pleases me, fascinates me? Oh, how I love you!’ he continued. ‘All your faults, your frights, your petty foibles, add an indescribable charm to your character. I feel that I should detest a Sappho, a strong, courageous woman, overflowing with energy and passion. O sweet and fragile creature! how couldst thou be otherwise? That angel’s voice, that refined voice, would have been an anachronism coming from any other breast than thine.’