After
nearly two years' absence, Elena was going to cross his threshold once
more. In half an hour, she would be seated in that chair--a little out
of breath at first, as of yore--would have removed her veil--be
speaking. All these familiar objects would hear the sound of her voice
again--perhaps even her laugh--after two long years.
'How shall I receive her--what shall I say?'
He was quite sincere in his anxiety and nervousness, for he had really
begun to love this woman once more, but the expression of his
sentiments, whether verbal or otherwise, was ever with him such an
artificial matter, so far removed from truth and simplicity, that he had
recourse to these preparations from pure habit even when, as was the
case now, he was sincerely and deeply moved.
He tried to imagine the scene beforehand, to compose some phrases; he
looked about him in the room, considering where would be the most
appropriate spot for the interview. Then he went over to a looking-glass
to see if his face were as pale as befitted the occasion, and his gaze
rested complacently on his forehead, just where the hair began at the
temples and where, in the old days, Elena was often wont to press a
delicate kiss. In matters of love, his vitiated and effeminate vanity
seized upon every advantage of personal grace or of dress to heighten
the charm of his appearance, and he knew how to extract the greatest
amount of pleasure therefrom.
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