ents with their consciences of which women alone
possess the secret, she had managed to reason like this: "Since I am
certain always to belong to Monsieur de Bergenheim only, Octave can
certainly belong to me." An heterodoxical syllogism, whose two premises
she reconciled with an inconceivable subtlety. A feeling of shame had
made her dread this meeting, which the most hardened coquette could
never witness without embarrassment. A woman, between her husband and
her lover, is like a plant one sprinkles with ice-cold water while a
ray of sunlight is trying to comfort it. The sombre and jealous, or even
tranquil and unsuspecting, face of a husband has a wonderful power of
repression. One is embarrassed to love under the glance of an eye
that darts flashes as bright as steel; and a calm, kindly look is more
terrible yet, for all jealousy seems tyrannical, and tyranny leads to
revolt; but a confiding husband is like a victim strangled in his sleep,
and inspires, by his very calmness, the most poignant remorse.

The meeting of these two men naturally led Clemence to a comparison
which could but be to Christian's advantage. Gerfaut had nothing
remarkable about him save an intelligent, intensely clever air; there
was a thoughtful look in his eyes and an archness in his smile, but his
irregular features showed no mark of beauty; his face wore an habitually
tired expression, peculiar to those people who have lived a great deal
in a short time, and it made him look older than Christian, although he
was really several years younger. The latter, on the contrary, owed to
his strong constitution, fortified by country life, an appearance of
blooming youth that enhanced his noble regularity of features.

In a word, Christian was handsomer than his rival, and Clemence
exaggerated her husband's superiority over her lover. Not being able to
find the latter awkward or insignificant, she tried to persuade herself
that he was ugly. She then reviewed in her mind all M. de Bergenheim's
good qualities, his attachment and kindness to her, his loyal, generous
ways; she recalled the striking instance that Marillac had related of
his bravery, a quality without which there is no hope of success for a
man in the eyes of any woman. She did all in her power to inflame her
imagination and to see in her husband a hero worthy of inspiring the
most fervent love. When she had exhausted her efforts toward such
enthusiasm and admiration, she turned round, in d