ion, but one which unavoidably takes up its abode in the
heart, and waits to come forth and be present one day on the lips, at the
time when Satiety gives the last kick to the last house of cards erected by
Pleasure.

And it is thus that after doing everything to draw a woman into our own
fall, we are discontented with her for her sacrifice and for her love.

For there comes a moment when the _angel_ for whom one would have given
one's life, the _divinity_ for whom one would have sacrificed country,
family, fortune, future, is no more than a common mistress, ranked in the
ordinary lot with the rest, and for whom one would hesitate to spend
half-a-sovereign.

Have you not chanced sometimes to follow with an envious eye, on some fresh
morning in spring or on a lovely autumn evening, the solitary walk of a
loving couple? They go slowly, hand in hand, avoiding notice, selecting the
shady and secret paths, or the darkest walks in the woods. He is handsome,
young and strong; she is pretty and charming, pale with emotion, or
blushing with modesty. What things they murmur as they lean one towards
another, what sweet projects of an endless future, what oaths which ought
to be eternal, sworn untiringly, lip on lip.

"One of those noble loves which have no end."

Happy egotists. They think but of themselves; all, except themselves, is
insupportable to them, all but themselves wearies and weighs upon them. The
universe is themselves, life is the present which glides along, and in
order to delay the present and enjoy it at their ease, they have no scruple
in mortgaging the future. And they go on, listening to the divine harmony,
the mysterious poem which sings in their own heart, of youth and love.

You have envied them; who would not envy them? It is happiness which passes
by. Make way respectfully. What! you smiled sorrowfully! Ah, it is because
like me, you have seen behind these poor trustful children, following them
as the _insultores_ used to follow the triumphal chariot of old, a demon
with sinister countenance who with his brutal hands will soon roughly tear
the veil woven of fancies; the Reality, who is there with his rags, getting
ready to cast them upon their bright tinsels of gauze and spangles.

Wait a few years, a few months, perhaps only a few weeks. What has become
of those handsome lovers so tenderly entwined? They swore mouth to mouth an
endless love. Where are they? Where are their loves?

As well would i