And their
very insignificance, though it reassured him, pained him as if her
enjoyment of them had been an act of treachery.
Even when he could not discover where she had gone, it would have sufficed
to alleviate the anguish that he then felt, for which Odette's presence,
the charm of her company, was the sole specific (a specific which in the
long run served, like many other remedies, to aggravate the disease, but
at least brought temporary relief to his sufferings), it would have
sufficed, had Odette only permitted him to remain in her house while she
was out, to wait there until that hour of her return, into whose stillness
and peace would flow, to be mingled and lost there, all memory of those
intervening hours which some sorcery, some cursed spell had made him
imagine as, somehow, different from the rest. But she would not; he must
return home; he forced himself, on the way, to form various plans, ceased
to think of Odette; he even reached the stage, while he undressed, of
turning over all sorts of happy ideas in his mind: it was with a light
heart, buoyed with the anticipation of going to see some favourite work of
art on the morrow, that he jumped into bed and turned out the light; but
no sooner had he made himself ready to sleep, relaxing a self-control of
which he was not even conscious, so habitual had it become, than an icy
shudder convulsed his body and he burst into sobs.
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