aimed the lover, whose anger was
freshly kindled at this question; "she has treated me as one would
treat a barber's boy. This note, which I just burned, was a most
formal, unpleasant, insolent dismissal. This woman is a monster, do you
understand me?"

"A monster! your angel, a monster!" said Marillac, suppressing with
difficulty a violent outburst of laughter.

"She, an angel? I must say that she is a demon--This woman--"

"Do you not adore her?"

"I hate her, I abhor her, she makes me shudder. You may laugh, if you
like!"

As he said these words, Gerfaut struck a violent blow upon the table
with his fist.

"You forget that Mademoiselle de Corandeuil's room is just beneath us,"
said the artist, in a teasing way.

"Listen to me, Marillac! Your system with women is vulgar, gross, and
trivial. The daisies which you gather, the maidens from whom you cut
handfuls of hair excellent for stuffing mattresses, your rustic beauties
with cheeks like rosy apples are conquests worthy of counter-jumpers
in their Sunday clothes. That is nothing but the very lowest grade
of love-making, and yet you are right, a thousand times right, and
wonderfully wise compared with me."

"You do me too much honor! So, then, you are not loved?"

"Truly, I had an idea I was, or, if I was not loved to-day, I hoped to
be to-morrow. But you are mistaken as to what discourages me. I simply
fear that her heart is narrow. I believe that she loves me as much as
she is able to love; unfortunately, that is not enough for me."

"It certainly seems to me that, so far, she has not shown herself madly
in love with you."

"Ah, madly! Do you know many women who love madly with their hearts
and souls? You talk like a college braggart. There are conquerors like
yourself who, if we are to believe them, would devour a whole convent
at their breakfast. These men excite my pity. As for me, really, I have
always felt that it was most difficult to make one's self really loved.
In these days of prudery, almost all women of rank appear 'frappe a la
glace', like a bottle of champagne. It is necessary to thaw them first,
and there are some of them whose shells are so frigid that they would
put out the devil's furnace. They call this virtue; I call it social
servitude. But what matters the name? the result is the same."

"But, really, are you sure that Madame de Bergenheim loves you?" asked
Marillac, emphasizing the word "love" so strongly as to attract his
frien