Whenever he had wished to call down the greatest of evils upon an enemy, the astute fellow had always uttered this anathema: "May God send you a female to your taste!..." Ferragut had found the "female to his taste" and was forever slave of his destiny.

It would follow him through every form of debasement which she might desire, and each time would leave him with less energy to protest, accepting the most disgraceful situations in exchange for love....

And it would always be so! And he who but a few months before used to consider himself a hard and overbearing man, would end by pleading and weeping if she should go away!...

Ah, misery!...
In hours of tranquillity, when satiety made them converse placidly like two friends of the same sex, Ulysses would avoid allusions to the past, questioning her only about her actual life.

These questions were chiefly concerned with the doctor's mysterious work; he wished to know with the interest that the slightest actions of a beloved person always inspire, the part that Freya was playing in them.