That summer I haunted the embroidery mistress's house more faithfully than her pupils.
The air there smelled of starch and lavender, and the only sound was the faint hiss of needles through cloth.
Angela sat by the window, head bowed, her movements measured with such composure that one might have believed she'd been born for stillness.
She never once encouraged me. No touch, no glance that lingered too long.
Yet the very absence of permission fed the fever.
Desire, like a flame, thrives on denial and Angela's composure was marble.
When I spoke of love, she answered softly, "We shall marry one day," as if the promise alone should suffice to quench a man's thirst.
It was both kindness and cruelty, the sort that only virtue knows how to inflict.
My pathetic entreaties stirred less feeling in Angela than in the two young sisters who often kept her company.
Had I not concentrated every look of mine upon the heartless girl, I might have noticed that beauty and feeling sat with them as easily as piety sat with Angela.
But my prejudiced eyes saw only Angela.
Still innocent, I was young enough to mistake silence for depth, jealousy for love, and purity for wisdom.
By the end of summer, my patience had turned rancid.
I had become, without knowing it, a monk of my own making- bound by a vow she had never asked me to swear.
With my ardent nature, I required a mistress like Bettina, who knew how to satisfy my love without wearing it out.
Such was the state of my mind when, in the first days of autumn, a letter arrived from the Countess de Mont-Real.
An invitation to spend some time at her beautiful estate at Pasean.
She expected many guests, and among them her own daughter, who had a great reputation for wit and beauty, although she had but one eye; but it was so beautiful that it made up for the loss of the other.
I accepted the invitation, and Pasean offering me a constant round of pleasures, it was easy enough for me to enjoy myself, and to forget for the time the rigours of the cruel Angela.
They gave me a pretty room on the ground floor, its windows opening onto the gardens of Paséan. The air smelled of roses and damp grass.
At the moment I awoke, my eyes were delighted with the sight of the charming creature who brought me my coffee.
She was very young, yet formed as gracefully as a woman of twenty.
Her complexion had the freshness of snow; her hair as dark as the raven's wing and her black eyes were beaming with fire and innocence.
Her simple dress -a chemise and short petticoat- revealed a well-turned leg and the prettiest tiny foot.
Every detail I gathered in one instant presented to my looks the most original and the most perfect beauty I had ever beheld.
I looked at her with great pleasure, and her eyes rested on me as if we were old acquaintances.
"How did you find your bed, sir?" she asked.
"Very comfortable;" I said. "I am sure you made it. Pray, who are you?"
"I'm Lucie," she replied. "The daughter of the gate-keeper: I have neither brothers nor sisters. I am very glad you have no servant with you; I will be your little maid, and I am sure you will be pleased with me."
Without waiting for permission, she helped me into my robe, chatting with a lively grace that made refusal impossible.
Then, as if she belonged there, she sat on the edge of my bed.
I had met flirtation before, but never such artless familiarity. It was candour itself, and therefore twice as dangerous.
I was drinking my coffee when her parents appeared, apologizing for her boldness. She stayed seated, chin lifted, proud of it.
Soon after, Lucie left the room to attend to her other duties.
The moment she had gone her father and mother began to praise their daughter.
"She is," they said, "our only child, our darling pet, the hope of our old age. She loves and obeys us, and fears God; she is as clean as a new pin, and has but one fault."
"What is that?"
"She is too young."
"That is a charming fault which time will mend."
When she returned, properly dressed, her hair arranged in a peculiar way of her own and her face glowing from the effort, she curtseyed to me, kissed her parents, and jumped onto her father's knees.
I asked her to sit by me again.
"I couldn't," she said. "That was before I was dressed."
The simplicity, artlessness, and innocence of the answer seemed to me very enchanting, and brought a smile on my lips.
I examined her to see whether she was prettier in her new dress or in the morning's negligee, and I decided in favor of the latter.
To speak the truth, Lucie was, I thought, superior in everything, not only to Angela, but even to Bettina.
The hair-dresser made his appearance, and the honest family left my room.
When I was dressed, I went to meet the countess and her amiable daughter.
The day passed pleasantly, as days in the country do when one is surrounded by agreeable company.
In the morning, the moment my eyes were opened, I rang the bell, and pretty Lucie came in, simple and natural as before, with her easy manners and wonderful remarks.
While she poured my coffee, I watched her and wondered how innocence could be so fearless.
There was no caution in her smile, no awareness that being alone in a man's room might be peril.
Her simplicity tempted me more than art ever could.
I fancied that she would not attach much importance to certain slight liberties, and would not prove over-scrupulous, and with that idea I made up my mind to show her that I fully understood her.
I felt no remorse of conscience on the score of her parents, who, in my estimation, were as careless as herself.
I felt no dread of awakening her innocence to malice, yet I wished neither to deceive myself nor to act blindly, so I resolved to reconnoitre the ground.
So I extend a daring hand towards her person, She flinched- just enough to color her cheeks and still her tongue.
For a moment she stood motionless, eyes fixed on the floor, breathing quick. Then she looked up again, smiled faintly, and spoke of nothing at all.
The moment dissolved.
I quickly restored her confidence, and judging further boldness unwise, resolved to spend the next morning in a friendly chat during which I could make her out better.
The next morning she came again, cheerful as sunrise.
I complained of the cold and, half in jest, told her she might lie beside me to keep warm.
"Would I disturb you?" she asked.
"Not in the least," I said. "but I am thinking that if your mother happened to come in, she would be angry."
"Mother would not think of any harm." she replied.
"Come, then. But Lucie, do you know what danger you are exposing yourself to?"
"Certainly I do; but you are good, and, what is more, you are a priest."
"Come; only lock the door."
"No, no, for people might think.... I do not know what."
She laid down close by me, and kept on her chatting, although I did not understand a word of what she said, for in that singular position, and unwilling to give way to my ardent desires, I remained as still as a log.
Her confidence in her safety, confidence which was certainly not feigned, worked upon my feelings to such an extent that I would have been ashamed to take any advantage of it.
When the clock struck nine, she started up.
"If Count Antonio finds me here, he'll tease me with his jokes," she said. "I always run when I see him."
Saying these words, she rose from the bed and left the room.
I stayed still for a long time after she left, dazed, the pulse in my hands still quick.
When morning came, she entered with her usual brightness, set the tray down, and began talking as if nothing in the world required caution.
As I wished to keep calm, I let her only sit at the edge of the bed.
Her talk was quick, her laughter easy. Nothing about her suggested guile.
I understood then what her parents adored in her: a spirit so open it mistook the world for goodness.
Her freedom with me sprang from the same source. Innocence had removed from her mind every shadow where suspicion might hide.
Everything in her- her lightness, her candid curiosity, the ease with which she surrendered her trust- proved she would be the victim of the first libertine who troubled himself to appear.
I felt enough command over myself to avoid any act my conscience might later reproach me with.
The mere thought of taking advantage of her innocence made me shudder.
My self-esteem was a guarantee to her parents, who abandoned her to me on the strength of the good opinion they entertained of me, that Lucie's honour was safe in my hands.
I therefore determined to conquer my feelings, to wage war against myself, and to be satisfied with her presence as the only reward of my heroic efforts.
It was a noble plan, and I believed in it with the optimism that attends all doomed strategies.
I was not yet acquainted with the axiom that so long as the fighting lasts, victory remains uncertain-- and that in wars of desire, the vanquished is always the one who hesitates longest.