gitated to freeze, as expect the
crystals of the mind to produce themselves under the influence of
incessant disturbance.

Work? Yes. Work never harmed any man or woman. It was harassment that
killed. Work of the mind, of the artistic powers, that was a tonic to
the whole being. But little distractions, irregular duties, worries,
uncertainties--Jouffroy shook his head ominously. And not only to the
artist were they fatal. It was these that drew such deep lines on the
faces of women still young. It was these that destroyed ability and
hope, and killed God only knew how many of His good gifts! Poverty: that
could be endured with all its difficulties, if that were the one
anxiety. It was never the _one_ but the multitude of troubles that
destroyed. Serenity there must be. A man knew that, and insisted on
having it. Friends were no true friends if they robbed one of it. For
him, he had a poor opinion of that which people called affection,
regard. As for _l'amour_, that was the supreme egotism. The affections
were simply a means to "make oneself paid." Affection! Bah! One did not
offer it for nothing, _bien sur_! It was through this insufferable
pretext that one arrived at governing others. "_Comment?_ Your presence
can give me happiness, and you will not remain always beside me? It is
nothing to you how I suffer? To me whom you love you refuse this small
demand?" Jouffroy opened his eyes, with a scornful glare. "It is in
_that_ fashion, I promise you, that one can rule!"

"Ah, monsieur," said Hadria, "you are a keen observer. How I wish you
could live a woman's life for a short time. You are wise now, but after
_that_----"

"Madame, I have sinned in my day, perhaps to merit purgatorial fires;
but, without false modesty, I do not think that I have justly incurred
the penalty you propose to me."

Hadria laughed. "It would be a strange piece of poetic justice," she
said, "if all the men who have sinned beyond forgiveness in this
incarnation, should be doomed to appear in the next, as well-brought-up
women."

Jouffroy smiled.

"Fancy some conquering hero reappearing in ringlets and mittens, as
one's maiden aunt."

Jouffroy grinned. "_Ce serait dur!_"

"_Ah, mon Dieu!_" cried Madame Vauchelet, "if men had to endure in the
next world that which they have made women suffer in this--that would be
an atrocious justice!"

CHAPTER XXXV.

Stubbornly Hadria sent her packets to the publishers; the publishers as
fir