of whom I am warranted in suspecting everything,
and of whom, in reality, I know nothing. And it
is this that draws me to him with a dizzy violence.
At least he is capable of many things in crime,
perhaps, and perhaps also in the direction of good.
I do not know. What does he want of me? What
will he do with me? Should I be the unscrupulous
instrument of plans that I knew nothing of, the
plaything of his ferocious passions? Does he even
love me? And why does he love me? For my
beauty; for my vices; for my intelligence; for my
hatred of prejudices,—he who makes parade of all
the prejudices? I do not know. In addition to
this attraction which the unknown and mysterious
has for me, he exercises over me the bitter, powerful charm of force. And this charm, yes, this
charm acts more and more on my nerves, conquers
my passive and submissive flesh. It is something
which I cannot define exactly, something that takes
me wholly, by my mind and by my sex, revealing
in me instincts of which I was unaware, instincts
that slept within me without my knowledge, and
that no love, no thrill of voluptuousness had before
awakened. And I tremble from head to foot when
I remember the words of Joseph, saying to me:
"You are like me, Célestine. Oh! not in features, of course. But our two souls are alike our two souls resemble each other."
Our two souls! Is that possible?
