be a shame.... You won't be bashful, will you? To me love is
sacred. And you will tell your little secrets to Mme. Noel? I have told
you mine. Only of course you will be careful not to make any noise. I
say this on account of the Russians in the next room. They used to
receive swarms of people up to all hours. The rumpus! I tell you, I put
a stop to it. But you, you're different. I liked you from the start."

I had to answer, I was going to answer ... but my tongue was dry with
confusion. Besides, how edge a word in? There she was back at her huge
pile of love stories. She even tried to pump me, lifting and lowering
her powdered little nose; one scrap of information she set aside for use
presently. At last she disappeared trippingly with a pointed _au revoir_
which crisped the hide of her cheeks.

An odor of imitation white lilac persists, but so much sunshine streams
in through the open window, so many quickening exhalations that the odor
will soon be dissipated.

Love ... yes....

Perhaps by listening hard to the inner voice you may get to let it speak
out loud. If I give in to this habit, I want to hear myself say: "I do
not like love." I even want to add: "Keep it away," because love seems
to be an outside force which smites or spares without your having
deserved or banished it.

I have seen too many couples in which the man is nothing but a craving
for conquest, the woman nothing, absolutely nothing, but a need to be
conquered. I have seen too many who have not been visited by grace and
have damned themselves to mutual ruin. A veritable attack and a
semblance of defence. I have seen what is taken for love.

I have seen women steeped in trickery; the wilier they were the more
love surrounded them. I have seen the heavy looks of men set about
everywhere like traps.... I am worth nothing as yet, but my sound
heart--I refuse it. And I say it quite low to exorcise the invisible
danger: I do not like love.

"To me love is sacred...."

I understand fully what those small, naked, prying eyes were glorifying.
And in the adventurous life of those eyes I see neither more nor fewer
blemishes and lies than in the eyes of the young girls. Neither more nor
fewer. At moments there even flashed in those eyes sparks, reflections,
gleams....

* * * * *

A cloud is darkening the window; my room is obliterated.

But if by leaning forward and boldly offering my face to the sun and
stretching