bove all, with our active, restless minds,
blase in many respects, unbelieving in others and disrespectful in the
remainder, soar over life as over an impure lake, and look at everything
with contempt, seeking in love an altar before which we can humble our
pride and soften our disdain.

"For there is in every man an insurmountable need to fall on his knees
before no matter what idol, if it remains standing and allows itself
to be adored. At certain hours, a prayerbell rings in the depth of
the heart, the sound of which throws him upon his knees as it cries:
'Kneel!' And then the very being who ignores God in His churches and
scorns kings upon their thrones, the being who has already exhausted the
hollow idols of glory and fame, not having a temple to pray in, makes a
fetich for himself in order to have a divinity to adore, so as not to
be alone in his impiety, and to see, above his head when he arises,
something that shall not be empty and vacant space. This man seeks a
woman, takes all that he has, talent passion, youth, enthusiasm, all the
wealth of his heart, and throws them at her feet like the mantle that
Raleigh spread out before Elizabeth, and he says to this woman: 'Walk,
O my queen; trample under your blessed feet the heart of your adoring
slave!' This man is a fool, is he not? For when the queen has passed,
what remains upon the mantle? Mud!"

Gerfaut accompanied these words with such a withering glance that the
one for whom they were intended felt her blood freeze in her veins, and
withdrew the hand her husband had kept till then in his; she soon arose
and seated herself at the other side of the table, under the pretext
of getting nearer the lamp to work, but in reality in order to withdraw
from Christian's vicinity. Clemence had expected her lover's anger,
but not his scorn; she had not strength to endure this torture, and the
conjugal love which had, not without difficulty, inflamed her heart
for the last few days, fell to ashes at the first breath of Octave's
indignation.

Mademoiselle de Corandeuil greeted the Vicomte's words indulgently; for,
from consummate pride, she separated herself from other women.

"So then," said she, "you pretend that if to-day love is painted under
false and vulgar colors, the fault is the model's, not the artist's."

"You express my thought much better than I could have done it myself,"
said Gerfaut, in an ironical tone; "where are the angels whose portraits
are called f