es, and he felt himself the king
of his home, where everything, even the baby, was subject to his
selfishness. Dinah's affection was to be seen in every trifle, Lousteau
could not possibly cease the entrancing deceptions of his unreal
passion.

Dinah, meanwhile, was aware of a source of ruin, both to her love and
to the household, in the kind of life into which Lousteau had allowed
himself to drift. At the end of ten months she weaned her baby,
installed her mother in the upstairs rooms, and restored the family
intimacy which indissolubly links a man and woman when the woman is
loving and clever. One of the most striking circumstances in Benjamin
Constant's novel, one of the explanations of Ellenore's desertion, is
the want of daily--or, if you will, of nightly--intercourse between
her and Adolphe. Each of the lovers has a separate home; they have both
submitted to the world and saved appearances. Ellenore, repeatedly
left to herself, is compelled to vast labors of affection to expel the
thoughts of release which captivate Adolphe when absent. The constant
exchange of glances and thoughts in domestic life gives a woman such
power that a man needs stronger reasons for desertion than she will ever
give him so long as she loves him.

This was an entirely new phase both to Etienne and to Dinah. Dinah
intended to be indispensable; she wanted to infuse fresh energy into
this man, whose weakness smiled upon her, for she thought it a security.
She found him subjects, sketched the treatment, and at a pinch, would
write whole chapters. She revived the vitality of this dying talent by
transfusing fresh blood into his veins; she supplied him with ideas and
opinions. In short, she produced two books which were a success. More
than once she saved Lousteau's self-esteem by dictating, correcting, or
finishing his articles when he was in despair at his own lack of ideas.
The secret of this collaboration was strictly preserved; Madame Piedefer
knew nothing of it.

This mental galvanism was rewarded by improved pay, enabling them to
live comfortably till the end of 1838. Lousteau became used to seeing
Dinah do his work, and he paid her--as the French people say in
their vigorous lingo--in "monkey money," nothing for her pains. This
expenditure in self-sacrifice becomes a treasure which generous souls
prize, and the more she gave the more she loved Lousteau; the time soon
came when Dinah felt that it would be too bitter a grief ever to