In the state of chronic
depression reactive to his orgy he let out all the truth about himself
in a passion of self-indulgent penitence. His tales of secret service
were, he told her, not technically lies. They were the delusions of his
deranged mind. He had read a spy book in England just before meeting
her, when he was recovering from a similar orgy; it had made a dint on
his brain similar to the impression left by the French girl earlier. In
the same way he explained his morbid tales of Chinese tortures--once, in
a fit of melancholy, he had attempted suicide, and after his recovery
had gone to the seaside with his mother to recuperate; in the
boarding-house had been a collection of books on atrocities. It seemed
that everything he read or saw when in a state of physical relaxation
affected him psychologically. Marcella did not realize this, however,
until long afterwards.
The tales he had told her about his parentage he was inclined to treat
with amusement.
"Don't you know, darling, that that's the first thing a man says when
he's crazed with any sort of delirium? Either his mother's honour or
some other woman's goes by the board. I just had a variant on that
theme--that's all."
She was silent for a while, crushed.
"And then the things you said to me, Louis. About me and--that awful Mr.
Pages:
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370