to appease her by humble conduct and sad repentant
looks; her assumed sullenness remained unchanged,
on her brow there was still that dark furrow which
made me uneasy. At night, in bed, she took a book
and turned her back to me. And the back of her perfumed neck to which my lips loved to cling with rapturous joy, now seemed to me harder than a stone
wall. . . . Within me deep resentment was stirring,
but I forced myself not to betray it. In the measure
that I was filled with rage, my voice sought sweeter
accents, it grew gentler and more beseeching.
"Juliette! my Juliette! . . . Speak to me, please! . . . Speak to me! Did I offend you, was I too harsh with you? I know I was. . . . Well, I am sorry and I ask your forgiveness. . . . But only speak to me."
My impression was that Juliette was not listening to me at all. She was cutting the pages of the book, and the noise of the friction of the knife against the paper annoyed me terribly.
"My Juliette. . . . Please understand me. . . . It is because I love you that I said that. . . . It is because I wish to see you pure, respected, and because it seems to me that all those are unworthy of you. . . . If I did not love you, would that make any difference to me? . . . And you think that I don't want you to go out! . . . Why no. . . . We shall go out often, every evening. . . . Ah, please don't be like that! . . . I was wrong! . . . Scold me, strike me. . . . But only speak to me, please speak to me!"
She continued turning the pages of the book. The words were throttled in my throat.
"It is not fair to act the way you do, Juliette. It is not nice at all to be like that. . . . Since I admitted my guilt! Ah, what pleasure do you get out of torturing me like this? . . . Didn't I say I was sorry? Come on, Juliette, I admit I was wrong!"
