ey who control by soft words and deceitful promises, who
know how to shake hands in such a manner as to win hearts, how to say
"My dear friend" in a certain tactful way to people he knows the least,
to change his mind without suspecting it, to be carried away by each new
idea, to be sincere in their weathercock convictions, to let themselves
be deceived as they deceive others, to forget the next morning what he
affirmed the day before.

The newspapers are full of these effeminate men. That is probably where
one finds the most, but it is also where they are most needed. The
Journal des Debats and the Gazette de France are exceptions.

Assuredly, every good journalist must be somewhat effeminate--that is,
at the command of the public, supple in following unconsciously the
shades of public opinion, wavering and varying, sceptical and credulous,
wicked and devout, a braggart and a true man, enthusiastic and ironical,
and always convinced while believing in nothing.

Foreigners, our anti-types, as Mme. Abel called them, the stubborn
English and the heavy Germans, regard us with a certain amazement
mingled with contempt, and will continue to so regard us till the end
of time. They consider us frivolous. It is not that, it is that we are
girls. And that is why people love us in spite of our faults, why
they come back to us despite the evil spoken of us; these are lovers'
quarrels! The effeminate man, as one meets him in this world, is so
charming that he captivates you after five minutes' chat. His smile
seems made for you; one cannot believe that his voice does not assume
specially tender intonations on their account. When he leaves you it
seems as if one had known him for twenty years. One is quite ready to
lend him money if he asks for it. He has enchanted you, like a woman.

If he commits any breach of manners towards you, you cannot bear any
malice, he is so pleasant when you next meet him. If he asks your pardon
you long to ask pardon of him. Does he tell lies? You cannot believe it.
Does he put you off indefinitely with promises that he does not keep?
One lays as much store by his promises as though he had moved heaven and
earth to render them a service.

When he admires anything he goes into such raptures that he convinces
you. He once adored Victor Hugo, whom he now treats as a back number.
He would have fought for Zola, whom he has abandoned for Barbey and
d'Aurevilly. And when he admires, he permits no limitatio