eakness of the heart, provided they have an
exalted and dignified character. They believe no longer in love. All
the women that your fashionable writers tell us about are vulgar and
sometimes unchaste creatures, to whom formerly a gentleman would have
blushed to give one glance or to offer a supper. I say this for your
benefit, Monsieur de Gerfaut, for in this respect you are far from being
irreproachable; and I could bring forth your books to support my theory.
If I accuse you of atheism, in love, what have you to say in reply?"

Carried away by one of those impulsive emotions which men of imagination
can not resist, Octave arose and said:

"I should not deny such an accusation. Yes, it is a sad thing, but
true, and only weak minds recoil from the truth: reality exists only in
material objects; all the rest is merely deception and fancy. All
poetry is a dream, all spiritualism a fraud! Why not apply to love the
accommodating philosophy which takes the world as it is, and does not
throw a savory fruit into the press under the pretext of extracting I
know not what imaginary essence? Two beautiful eyes, a satin skin, white
teeth, and a shapely foot and hand are of such positive and inestimable
value! Is it not unreasonable, then, to place elsewhere than in them
all the wealth of love? Intellect sustains its owner, they say; no,
intelligence kills. It is thought that corrupts sensation and causes
suffering where, but for that, joy would reign supreme.

"Thought! accursed gift! Do we give or ask a thought of the rose
whose perfume we breathe? Why not love as we breathe? Would not woman,
considered simply as a perfectly organized vegetation, be the queen of
creation? Why not enjoy her perfume as we bend before her, leaving her
clinging to the ground where she was born and lives? Why tear her from
the earth, this flower so fresh, and have her wither in our hands as
we raise her up like an offering? Why make of so weak and fragile a
creature a being above all others, for whom our enthusiasm can find no
name, and then discover her to be but an unworthy angel?

"Angel! yes, of course, but an angel of the Earth, not of Heaven; an
angel of flesh, not of light! By dint of loving, we love wrongly. We
place our mistress too high and ourselves too low; there is never
a pedestal lofty enough for her, according to our ideas. Fools! Oh!
reflection is always wise, but desire is foolish, and our conduct is
regulated by our desire. We, a