Sylva

Nanny had accustomed her, when waking up, to go and “kiss Bonny good morning” at an hour when I was still in bed. She had been doing so for a long time now, of her own accord and very willingly. On this morning, after kissing me (always moistening my cheek, my nose a little), she had suddenly slipped between the sheets and rubbed herself against me with such ardor that I understood, amused and embarrassed, what was the matter: the awakening of spring, by Jove!… Her wild little animal nature remained subservient to the seasons.

I had repulsed her by getting out of bed at once and, promptly distracted according to the normal habit of her little feather brain, she had forgotten me and set to play with one of her objects.

I had hastened to forget this bout of discomfiting heat but now, at the thoughts suggested by Nanny, I felt gripped by fever. In an instant, icy perspiration broke out all over me. And why only one? Why not two, or ten? How many foxes, it suddenly flashed through my mind with a sharp and sudden pain, had already previously imposed their male ardor on her?

I retained just enough self-control to be stupefied and appalled at having this thought: what was coming over me? Jealous of the past loves of a fox bitch? It was too funny for words! And I tried to laugh about it. Alas, there was no room for doubt: I was not laughing, I was in agony. I had abruptly left Nanny and was stalking fast toward the house while she was calling after me: “Sir! Sir!” in a worried, rueful voice, not quite knowing, I suppose, what could have offended me in her words but guessing that she had somehow hurt me. I rushed up the stairs, locked myself in my room, and paced from one wall to the other, groaning and clenching my fists, while a voice inside me spoke up in revolt: Steady now! Steady! Have you gone mad?

However, as I honestly questioned my heart I could no longer hide from myself that I was madly jealous. Jealousy in all its forms has always struck me as a most improper feeling. The French hold it up to ridicule and make fun of it in their theatre. (But as they make even more fun of deceived and complacent husbands, they contradict themselves in this respect as they do in all others.) As for me, I don’t think that jealousy is so much a laughing matter as a repulsive one. This is partly why for so many years I have hesitated to get married: against jealousy there is nothing more effective than celibacy… And here I was, racked by pain and hatred at the idea of rutting foxes around a vixen, and the favors she had granted them! Was I, then, forced to admit to myself that I could possibly be in love with her-and in the throes of the most common, vulgar sort of love at that?

I called to my rescue the memory of Dorothy, but this only exacerbated the confusion of my thoughts. To be sure, I had once been in love with Dorothy; perhaps I had never stopped completely; but never had I, in her respect, been stirred by thoughts like this. Not even at the time of her awful marriage-no, never had I sunk, even to mortify myself, to imagining her in the arms of her abominable husband. Such images would have disgusted me with myself for conjuring them up. And now they were submerging me, because they no longer applied lo a young lady of good family but to a female fox! I tried to persuade myself that these feelings could be better explained if they were not those of a lover, but a father. And for almost an hour I even managed to convince myself of it: yes, I felt for Sylva an anxious, authoritarian affection,

I was pained by her lapses from virtue, I worried about her future, I loathed her seducers. Nothing that was not very high-minded in all this. Unfortunately, this fiction could not be maintained for long, and the pain that griped my stomach at any too imaginative evocation was void of paternal feeling. So much so that after torturing myself in this way, I fell to wondering whether, for the sake of my moral health and self-respect, it would not be best never to see her again, to abandon her to her destiny in the forest. And to marry Dorothy as soon as possible.

But even supposing that I would have found sufficient strength in this wise resolution to put it into effect, was it still practicable? Could I openly abandon my “niece”- since I thought I had been so clever in passing her off as such? No, I told myself, it is too late for that. In the eyes of all, such an abandonment would be incomprehensible and criminal. Willy-nilly, I had to find Sylva again. And I realized without surprise that this necessity filled me at once with apprehension and a somber glee.