Her clear, but cold face is turned toward me,
and her cold green eyes rest upon me.
"I am satisfied with you, Gregor," she began.
I bowed.
"Come closer."
I obeyed.
"Still closer," she looked down, and stroked the sable with her
hand. "Venus in Furs receives her slave. I can see that you are more
than an ordinary dreamer, you don't remain far in arrears of your
dreams; you are the sort of man who is ready to carry his dreams into
effect, no matter how mad they are. I confess, I like this; it
impresses me. There is strength in this, and strength is the only
thing one respects. I actually believe that under unusual
circumstances, in a period of great deeds, what seems to be your
weakness would reveal itself as extraordinary power. Under the early
emperors you would have been a martyr, at the time of the Reformation
an anabaptist, during the French Revolution one of those inspired
Girondists who mounted the guillotine with the marseillaise on their
lips. But you are my slave, my--"
She suddenly leaped up; the furs slipped down, and she threw her
arms with soft pressure about my neck.
"My beloved slave, Severin, oh, how I love you, how I adore you, how
handsome you are in your Cracovian costume! You will be cold to-night
up in your wretched room without a fire. Shall I give you one of my
furs, dear heart, the large one there--"
She quickly picked it up, throwing it over my shoulders, and before
I knew what had happened I was completely wrapped up in it.
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