Alfred de Musset

Passion's Evil

FIRST PART

Midnight sounded, and the salons of the Comtesse Gamiani still shone in a flood of light. The rounds and quadrilles continued animatedly, to the intoxicating sounds of the orchestra. The toilettes were marvelous, the jewels sparkled.

Gracious, assiduous, the mistress of the ban seemed to enjoy the success of her carefully planned fete, announced at great expense. She was observed to smile agreeably to, all the flattering words, to the customary phrases that each one prodigally used in payment for his presence.

Withdrawn in my habitual role of observer, I had already made more. than one remark which dispensed with my conversation to the Comtesse Gamiani the merit she was supposed to posses. I had quickly judged her, as it woman of the world, but it still remained for me to dissect her moral being, to carry the scalpel into the regions of her heart; and I know not what strange and unknown emotion withheld and stopped me in my examination. I felt an infinite pain to analyze the back, ground of this woman's existence, whose conduct nothing explained. Still young, and with an immense fortune, pretty in the eyes of a great number, this woman without relatives, without intimates, was in some way individually in the world. Alone, she spent an existence capable in all appearance of supporting more than one sharer.

Many a tongue had criticized, ending always by slandering, but, in the absence of proof, the Comtesse remained impenetrable.

Some applauded her as a Fedora, a woman without a heart, without temperament; others supposed her a spirit profoundly wounded, and who would in the future avoid crud deceptions.

Desiring to resolve my doubts, I placed under contribution all the resources of my logic, but all was in vain, I never arrived at a satisfactory conclusion.

I was about to quit the subject in despite, when, behind me, an old libertine raised his voice in an exclamation:

“Bah! she is a tribade.”

The word was like a flash of lightning, all fit together and was explained, there was no longer a possible contradiction.

A tribade! The word rings in the ears in a strange manner. Then it raises in you I know not what strange images of unknown voluptuosity, lascivious to excess. “Tis a luxurious rage, an infuriated lubricity, a horrible pleasure which remains forever unachieved.