The Immoralist
I touched things with my hand; I went prowling.
The last night we spent at Naples I stayed out later than usual on this vagabond debauch. When I came in, I found Marceline in tears. She had woken up suddenly, she said, and been frightened at not feeling me there. I calmed her, explained my absence as well as I could, and resolved not to leave her again. But the first night we spent at Palermo was too much for me—I went out. The orange trees were in flower; the slightest breath of air came laden with their scent.…
We only stayed five days at Palermo; then, by a long detour, we made our way to Taormina, which we both wanted to see again. I think I have told you that the village is perched high on the mountain side; the station is on the sea-shore. The carriage that drove us to the hotel took me back again to the station for me to get our trunks. I stood up in the carriage in order to talk to the driver. He was a Sicilian boy from Catania, as beautiful as a line of Theocritus, full of colour and odour and savour, like a fruit.
"Com'è bella, la Signora!" said he, in a charming voice, as he watched Marceline go into the hotel.
"Anche tu sei bello, ragazzo," I replied; then, as I was standing so near him, I could not resist, but drew
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