onceal
their cleverness under a passion real or feigned, is precisely the same
(allowing for the difference of minds) as that which renders a woman of
a certain age more adroit in attracting youth. A young man feels that he
is sure to succeed with her, and the vanities of the woman are flattered
by his suit. Besides, isn't it natural for youth to fling itself
on fruits? The autumn of a woman's life offers many that are very
toothsome,--those looks, for instance, bold, and yet reserved, bathed
with the last rays of love, so warm, so sweet; that all-wise elegance
of speech, those magnificent shoulders, so nobly developed, the full
and undulating outline, the dimpled hands, the hair so well arranged,
so cared for, that charming nape of the neck, where all the resources
of art are displayed to exhibit the contrast between the hair and the
flesh-tones, and to set in full relief the exuberance of life and love.
Brunettes themselves are fair at such times, with the amber colors of
maturity. Besides, such women reveal in their smiles and display in
their words a knowledge of the world; they know how to converse; they
can call up the whole of social life to make a lover laugh; their
dignity and their pride are stupendous; or, in other moods, they can
utter despairing cries which touch his soul, farewells of love which
they take care to render useless, and only make to intensify his
passion. Their devotions are absolute; they listen to us; they love us;
they catch, they cling to love as a man condemned to death clings to the
veriest trifles of existence,--in short, love, absolute love, is known
only through them. I think such women can never be forgotten by a man,
any more than he can forget what is grand and sublime. A young woman
has a thousand distractions; these women have none. No longer have they
self-love, pettiness, or vanity; their love--it is the Loire at its
mouth, it is vast, it is swelled by all the illusions, all the affluents
of life, and this is why--but my muse is dumb," he added, observing
the ecstatic attitude of Mademoiselle des Touches, who was pressing
Calyste's hand with all her strength, perhaps to thank him for having
been the occasion of such a moment, of such an eulogy, so lofty that she
did not see the trap that it laid for her.

During the rest of the evening Claude Vignon and Felicite sparkled with
wit and happy sayings; they told anecdotes, and described Parisian life
to Calyste, who was charmed wit