sound of their voice, in their gestures and in their walk.
Everything in them is soft, trembling, passionate. Sweet creatures who see
only one goal in life, love, and, when the goal is missed, death.

There are women who are but half women. They are quickly recognized; vulgar
and awkward, they hide under their ungraceful petticoats the instincts of
man, and masculinity is displayed up to their corsage. They form the
fantastical cohort of learned women, of the disciples of Stuart Mill and
rivals of Miss Taylor, hybrid natures which may possess a heart of gold and
a manly soul, but are incapable of being the joy of the hearth.

Others are women to the tips of their rosy nails, to the root of their
abundant hair; women above all by their faults, that is to say their
weaknesses, and this weakness is one of their attractions. Impressionable
and easily led, they become, according to the surroundings which hold them
and the destiny which urges them, heroines or saints, courtesans or nuns,
but invariably martyrs of that blind despot, their heart.

They are Magdalene or St. Theresa, Madame de Guyon or Heloise, the nun in
love with Jesus or the light girl in love with the passer-by.

In a second the priest had understood this sweet nature, or rather he had
felt it, and his quivering nostrils inhaled the keen perfume of pleasure,
while his look was lost in ecstasy. It was but a flash, but if beneath the
watchful eye of the Captain it appeared impossible, the young girl could
read the dumb language which every woman understands.

She came forward, blushing.

--This is my daughter, said the Captain.

--I believe, said the Cure, with a bow, that I have had the pleasure of
seeing Mademoiselle several times already in our modest church.

--And you concluded therefore that my daughter was going to increase the
blessed flock. Don't be misled, comrade.

Suzanne cast a look of reproach upon her father.

--What! said Marcel, hurt, must not Mademoiselle follow her religion? work
out her salvation?

--Her salvation? There is a word which always makes me laugh. It reminds me
of my Colonel's wife who, when her husband gave orders for a review and
parade for Sunday, said, "My dear, you want then to deprive the poor
soldiers of the holy Mass, ought they not to work out their salvation?" A
magnificent creature, sir, but too much inclined to the cassock.

Her husband, however, had nothing to complain of, for one fine morning he
picked