"

"Materialism is the source from which modern literature takes its
inspiration," continued the old lady; "and this poisonous stream not only
dries up the thoughts which would expand toward heaven, but also withers
all that is noble in human sentiment. To-day, people are not content to
deny God, because they are not pure enough to comprehend Him; they disown
even the weakness of the heart, provided they have an exalted and
dignified character. They believe no longer in love. All the women that
your fashionable writers tell us about are vulgar and sometimes unchaste
creatures, to whom formerly a gentleman would have blushed to give one
glance or to offer a supper. I say this for your benefit, Monsieur de
Gerfaut, for in this respect you are far from being irreproachable; and I
could bring forth your books to support my theory. If I accuse you of
atheism, in love, what have you to say in reply?"

Carried away by one of those impulsive emotions which men of imagination
can not resist, Octave arose and said:

"I should not deny such an accusation. Yes, it is a sad thing, but true,
and only weak minds recoil from the truth: reality exists only in
material objects; all the rest is merely deception and fancy. All poetry
is a dream, all spiritualism a fraud! Why not apply to love the
accommodating philosophy which takes the world as it is, and does not
throw a savory fruit into the press under the pretext of extracting I
know not what imaginary essence? Two beautiful eyes, a satin skin, white
teeth, and a shapely foot and hand are of such positive and inestimable
value! Is it not unreasonable, then, to place elsewhere than in them all
the wealth of love? Intellect sustains its owner, they say; no,
intelligence kills. It is thought that corrupts sensation and causes
suffering where, but for that, joy would reign supreme.

"Thought! accursed gift! Do we give or ask a thought of the rose whose
perfume we breathe? Why not love as we breathe? Would not woman,
considered simply as a perfectly organized vegetation, be the queen of
creation? Why not enjoy her perfume as we bend before her, leaving her
clinging to the ground where she was born and lives? Why tear her from
the earth, this flower so fresh, and have her wither in our hands as we
raise her up like an offering? Why make of so weak and fragile a creature
a being above all others, for whom our enthusiasm can find no name, and
then discover her to be but an unworthy angel?