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slightest inequalities of her face； to count the blue veins which
threaded their way beneath the satiny skin。 And that fresh； brisk
voice of silvery /timbre/； flexible as a thread to which the faintest
breath of air gives form； which it rolls and unrolls； tangles and
blows away； that voice attacked his heart so fiercely that he more
than once uttered an involuntary exclamation； extorted by the
convulsive ecstasy too rarely evoked by human passions。 He was soon
obliged to leave the theatre。 His trembling legs almost refused to
bear him。 He was prostrated； weak； like a nervous man who has given
way to a terrible burst of anger。 He had had such exquisite pleasure；
or perhaps had suffered so； that his life had flowed away like water
from an overturned vessel。 He felt a void within him； a sense of
goneness like the utter lack of strength which discourages a
convalescent just recovering from a serious sickness。 Overwhelmed by
inexplicable melancholy； he sat down on the steps of a church。 There；
with his back resting against a pillar； he lost himself in a fit of
meditation as confused as a dream。 Passion had dealt him a crushing
blow。 On his return to his apartments he was seized by one of those
paroxysms of activity which reveal to us the presence of new
principles in our existence。 A prey to that first fever of love which
resembles pain as much as pleasure； he sought to defeat his impatience
and his frenzy by sketching La Zambinella from memory。 It was a sort
of material meditation。 Upon one leaf La Zambinella appeared in that
pose； apparently calm and cold； affected by Raphael； Georgione； and
all the great painters。 On another； she was coyly turning her head as
she finished a roulade； and seemed to be listening to herself。
Sarrasine drew his mistress in all poses： he drew her unveiled；
seated； standing； reclining； chaste； and amorousinterpreting； thanks
to the delirious activity of his pencil； all the fanciful ideas which
beset our imagination when our thoughts are completely engrossed by a
mistress。 But his frantic thoughts outran his pencil。 He met La
Zambinella； spoke to her； entreated her； exhausted a thousand years of
life and happiness with her； placing her in all imaginable situations；
trying the future with her； so to speak。 The next day he sent his
servant to hire a box near the stage for the whole season。 Then； like
all young men of powerful feelings； he exaggerated the difficulties of
his undertaking； and gave his passion； for its first pasturage； the
joy of being able to admire his mistress without obstacle。 The golden
age of love； during which we enjoy our own sentiments； and in which we
are almost as happy by ourselves； was not likely to last long with
Sarrasine。 However； events surprised him when he was still under the
spell of that springtime hallucination； as naive as it was voluptuous。
In a week he lived a whole lifetime； occupied through the day in
molding the clay with which he succeeded in copying La Zambinella；
notwithstanding the veils； the skirts； the waists； and the bows of
ribbon which concealed her from him。 In the evening； installed at an
early hour in his box； alone； reclining on a sofa； he made for
himself； like a Turk drunk with opium； a happiness as fruitful； as
lavish； as he wished。 First of all； he familiarized himself gradually
with the too intense emotions which his mistress' singing caused him；
then he taught his eyes to look at her； and was finally able to
contemplate her at his leisure without fearing an explosion of
concealed frenzy； like that which had seized him the first day。 His
passion became more profound as it became more tranquil。 But the
unsociable sculptor would not allow his solitude； peopled as it was
with images； adorned with the fanciful creations of hope； and full of
happiness； to be disturbed by his comrades。 His love was so intense
and so ingenuous； that he had to undergo the innocent scruples with
which we are assailed when we love for the first time。 As he began to
realize that he would soon be required to bestir himself； to intrigue；
to ask where La Zambinella lived； to ascertain whether she had a
mother； an uncle； a guardian； a family；in a word； as he reflected
upon the methods of seeing her； of speaking to her； he felt that his
heart was so swollen with such ambitious ideas； that he postponed
those cares until the following day； as happy in his physical
sufferings as in his intellectual pleasures。〃
〃But；〃 said Madame de Rochefide； interrupting me； 〃I see nothing of
Marianina or her little old man in all this。〃
〃You see nothing but him！〃 I cried； as vexed as an author for whom
some one has spoiled the effect of a /coup de theatre/。
〃For some days；〃 I resumed after a pause； 〃Sarrasine had been so
faithful in attendance in his box； and his glances expressed such
passionate love； that his passion for La Zambinella's voice would have
been the town…talk of Paris； if the episode had happened here； but in
Italy； madame； every one goes to the theatre for his own enjoyment；
with all his own passions； with a heartfelt interest which precludes
all thought of espionage with opera…glasses。 However； the sculptor's
frantic admiration could not long escape the notice of the performers；
male and female。 One evening the Frenchman noticed that they were
laughing at him in the wings。 It is hard to say what violent measures
he might have resorted to； had not La Zambinella come on the stage。
She cast at Sarrasine one of those eloquent glances which often say
more than women intend。 That glance was a complete revelation in
itself。 Sarrasine was beloved！
〃 'If it is a mere caprice；' he thought； already accusing his mistress
of too great ardor； 'she does not know the sort of domination to which
she is about to become subject。 Her caprice will last； I trust； as
long as my life。'
〃At that moment； three light taps on the door of his box attracted the
artist's attention。 He opened the door。 An old woman entered with an
air of mystery。
〃 'Young man；' she said； 'if you wish to be happy； be prudent。 Wrap
yourself in a cloak； pull a broad…brimmed hat over your eyes； and be
on the Rue du Corso； in front of the Hotel d'Espagne； about ten
o'clock to…night。'
〃 'I will be there；' he replied； putting two louis in the duenna's
wrinkled hand。
〃He rushed from his box； after a sign of intelligence to La
Zambinella； who lowered her voluptuous eyelids modestly； like a woman
overjoyed to be understood at last。 Then he hurried home； in order to
borrow from his wardrobe all the charms it could loan him。 As he left
the theatre； a stranger grasped his arm。
〃 'Beware； Signor Frenchman；' he said in his ear。 'This is a matter of
life and death。 Cardinal Cicognara is her protector； and he is no
trifler。'
〃If a demon had placed the deep pit of hell between Sarrasine and La
Zambinella； he would have crossed it with one stride at that moment。
Like the horses of the immortal gods described by Homer； the
sculptor's love had traversed vast spaces in a twinkling。
〃 'If death awaited me on leaving the house； I would go the more
quickly；' he replied。
〃 '/Poverino！/' cried the stranger； as he disappeared。