e did not see that this was impossible. Nor did Nanteuil.

"Then you will cure me, dear old Socrates," she said, turning upon him
her pretty grey eyes, full of entreaty.

"You will cure yourself my child. You will cure yourself, because you
are hard-working, sensible, and courageous. Yes, yes, you are timid and
brave at the same time. You dread danger, but you have the courage to
live. You will be cured, because you are not in sympathy with evil and
suffering. You will be cured because you want to be cured."

"You think then that one can be cured if one wills it?"

"When one wills it in a certain profound, intimate fashion, when it is
our cells that will it within us, when it is our unconscious self that
wills it; when one wills it with the secret, abounding, absolute will of
the sturdy tree that wills itself to grow green again in the spring."

CHAPTER XVIII

That same night, being unable to sleep, she turned over in her bed, and
threw back the bed-clothes. She felt that sleep was still far off, that
it would come with the first rays, full of dancing atoms of dust, with
which morning pierces the chinks between the curtains. The night-light,
with its tiny burning heart shining through its porcelain shade, gave
her a mystic and familiar companionship. Felicie opened her eyes and at
a glance drank in the white milky glimmer which brought her peace of
mind. Then, closing them once more, she relapsed into the tumultuous
weariness of insomnia. Now and again a few words of her part recurred to
her memory, words to which she attached no meaning, yet which obsessed
her: "Our days are what we make them." And her mind wearied itself by
turning over and over some four or five ideas.

"I must go to Madame Royaumont to-morrow, to try on my gown. Yesterday I
went with Fagette to Jeanne Perrin's dressing-room; she was dressing,
and she showed her hairy legs, as if she was proud of them. She's not
ugly, Jeanne Perrin; indeed, she has a fine head; but it is her
expression that I dislike. How does Madame Colbert make out that I owe
her thirty-two francs? Fourteen and three are seventeen, and nine,
twenty-six. I owe her only twenty-six francs. 'Our days are what we make
them.' How hot I feel!"

With one swift movement of her supple loins she turned over, and her
bare arms opened to embrace the air as though it had been a cool, subtle
body.

"It seems a hundred years since Robert went away. It was cruel of him to
leave me