A sanguineous passion had lurked in his muscles,
and now that his sweetheart was taken from him, this passion burst out
in blind violence. He was madly in love. This thriving brutish nature
seemed unconscious in everything. He obeyed his instincts, permitting
the will of his organism to lead him.
A year before, he would have burst into laughter, had he been told
he would become the slave of a woman, to the point of risking his
tranquillity. The hidden forces of lust that had brought about this
result had been secretly proceeding within him, to end by casting him,
bound hand and foot, into the arms of Therese. At this hour, he was in
dread lest he should omit to be prudent. He no longer dared go of an
evening to the shop in the Arcade of the Pont Neuf lest he should commit
some folly. He no longer belonged to himself. His ladylove, with her
feline suppleness, her nervous flexibility, had glided, little by
little, into each fibre of his body. This woman was as necessary to his
life as eating and drinking.
He would certainly have committed some folly, had he not received a
letter from Therese, asking him to remain at home the following evening.
His sweetheart promised him to call about eight o'clock.
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