how I used to talk . . . to Papa while I was married to my poor old husband . . . how I used to talk to Papa . . . and try to find consolation in those talks . . . and how we worked ourselves up with those talks until . . . oh, Mathilde, oh, Mathilde, let me tell you all about it! . . . Let me tell you all about it, quite simply, even though you know, so that I may have the right to speak to you. I used to talk to Papa . . . and we fell in love with each other . . . we thought we loved each other. . . ."
"And, if you thought so, why didn't you?"
"Because it wasn't true, dear, because it wasn't a burning fire of feeling, because it was an unreal feeling, arising from unreal words between a young woman and a young man until . . . until all those talks drove them into each other's arms . . . and the awful thing became irrevocable."
"Mamma!"
"I am telling you everything, dear . . ."
"I know everything, Mamma. But you say you used to have unreal talks with Papa."
"Yes."
"I talk simply to Johan."
"My dear, my dear, it's not that. I, I myself was unreal . . . in those days . . . in my feelings, which came out of books which I had read. Papa used to answer . . . out of those same books. You . . . you are different: you are simple; Erzeele, a friend of your childhood, is simple, a simple-minded fellow; your talks are bound to be different."
"Our talks are simple."
"But, when I came in, I saw that you were talking confidentially, intimately, intimately and eagerly . . . and that he was holding your hand, holding your two hands."
