Jean hurried down the lane and started off across country in
such a state of high exaltation as robbed him of all senses of
realities and banished all consciousness whether of joy or pain.
He had no remembrance of what he had been before the moment when
he kissed the actress's hand; he seemed a stranger to himself.
On his lips lingered a taste that stirred voluptuous fancies,
and grew stronger as he pressed them one against the other.
Next morning his intoxication was dissipated and he relapsed
into profound depression. He told himself that his last chance
was gone. He realized that the gate overhung with wild vine and
ivy was shut against him by that careless, capricious hand more
firmly and more inexorably than ever it could have been by the
bolts and bars of the most prudish virtue. He felt instinctively
that his kiss had stirred no promptings of desire, that he had
been powerless to win any hold on his mistress's senses.
He had forgotten what he said, but he knew that he had spoken
out in all the frank sincerity of his heart. He had exposed his
ignorance of the world, his contemptible candour. The mischief
was irreparable. Could anyone be more unfortunate? He had lost
even the one advantage he possessed, of being unknown to her.
Though he entertained no very high opinion of himself, he certainly
held fate responsible for his natural deficiencies. He was poor,
he reasoned, and therefore had no right to fall in love. Ah!
if only he were wealthy and familiar with all the things idle,
prosperous people know, how entirely the splendour of his material
surroundings would be in harmony with the splendour of his passion!
What blundering, ferocious god of cruelty had immured in the dungeon
of poverty this soul of his that so overflowed with desires?
He opened his window and caught sight of his father's apprentice
on his way back to the workshop. The lad stood there on the pavement
talking with naive effrontery to a little book-stitcher of his
acquaintance. He was kissing the girl, without a thought of the
passers-by, and whistling a tune between his teeth. The pretty,
sickly-looking slattern carried her rags with an air, and wore
a pair of smart, well-made boots; she was pretending to push
her admirer away, while really doing just the opposite, for the
slim yet broad-shouldered stripling in his blue blouse had a
certain townified elegance and the "conquering hero" air of the
suburban dancing-saloons. When he left her, she looked back
repeatedly; but he was examining the saveloys in a pork-butcher's
window, never giving another thought to the girl.
Jean, as he looked on at the little scene, found himself envying
his father's apprentice.