When Freya, tired of dancing in the center of the salon, was not curling herself up in his arms she took delight in opening a box of sandalwood.

In this she used to keep all her jewels, taking them out again and again with a nervous restlessness, as though she feared they might have evaporated in their enclosure.

Her lover had to listen to the gravest explanations accompanying the display of her treasures.
"Kiss it," she said, offering him the string of pearls almost always on her neck.
These grains of moonlight splendor were to her little living beings, little creatures that she needed in contact with her skin.

She was impregnated with the essence of all that she wore; she drank their life.
"They have slept upon me so many nights," she would murmur, contemplating them amorously.

"This light amber tone I have given them with the warmth of my body." They were no longer a piece of jewelry, they formed a part of her organism.