He kissed me, and he loves in me only her whom I hate. He lays
his hands in mine and utters vows of love which he dedicates to her.
He thinks and feels for her only--her alone. What a terrible torture
this is! To be loved under her name; under her name to receive the
vows of love that yet belong to me only--to me alone! For he loves
me, me exclusively. They are my lips that he kisses, my form that he
embraces; to me are addressed his words and his letters; and it is I
that reply to them. He loves me, me only, and yet he puts no faith
in me. I am nothing to him, naught but a lifeless image, like other
women. This he has told me; and I did not become frenzied; and I had
the cruel energy to pass off the tears wrung from me by despair, for
tears of rapture. Oh, detestable, horrible mockery of fate--to be
what I am not, and not to be what I am!"
And with a shrill cry of agony she tore her hair, and with her fist
smote upon her breast, and wept and moaned aloud.
She heard naught; she saw naught; she felt naught but her
inexpressible and despairing anguish.
She did not once tremble for herself; she thought not at all of
this--that she would be lost if she were found in this place.
And yet at the other side of the room a door had opened, softly and
noiselessly, and a man had entered.
He shut the door behind him and walked up to Lady Jane, who still
lay on the floor. He stood behind her while she uttered her
despairing lamentation.
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