vious image; here it is extended over a living woman:

"She noticed that my eyes were occupied, and when she saw them inflamed,
the cloth seemed to open itself away from her; I saw all the treasures
of a divine beauty. At this moment she took my hand; my eyes were
wandering. There is only my dear Ardasire, I cry out, who can be as
beautiful; but I swear to the gods that my fidelity.... She threw
herself on my neck and drew me into her arms. Suddenly the room became
darkened; her veil opened and she gave me a kiss. I was beside myself; a
flame started suddenly through my veins and aroused all my senses. The
idea of Ardasire was far from me. She remained to me only as a
memory ... there appeared to me but one thought.... I was going.... I
was going to prefer this one even to her. Already my hands had wandered
to her breasts; they ran rapidly everywhere; love showed itself only in
its fury; it hurried on to victory; a moment more and Ardasire could not
defend herself."

Who, now, has written that? It is not the author of _The New Heloise_,
it is the President, Montesquieu! Here is no bitterness, no disgust, but
all is sacrificed to literary beauty, and they give it as a prize to
pupils in rhetoric, without doubt to serve as a model in the
amplifications and descriptions that they are required to
write. Montesquieu described in his Persian Letters a scene which could
not even be read. It concerns a woman placed between two men who dispute
over her. This woman, placed between two men, has dreams--which appear
to the author very agreeable.

Shall we sum up, Mr. Attorney? Or is it necessary for me to quote you
Jean-Jacques Rousseau in his _Confessions_, and some others? No, I will
only say to the judges that if, on account of his description of the
carriage in _The Double Misunderstanding_, M. Merimee had been
prosecuted, he would have been acquitted immediately. One sees in his
book only a work of art of great literary beauty. One would no more
condemn it than he would condemn paintings or statuary, which is not
content with representing all the beauties of the body, but wishes to
add ardour and passion. I will follow it no farther; I ask you to
recognise the fact that M. Flaubert has not weighted his images and has
done only one thing: he has touched with a firm hand the scene of
degradation. At each line of his book he has brought out the
disillusion, and instead of ending it with something charming, he has
undertaken to