t
reasoning power which does not spring from the depth of the
spirit, but from shallow, walled-in pools--like the basins at
Versailles--within the limits of constituted society.

In this somewhat legal phraseology love is bound to sex, age, and
social classes; it is either natural or unnatural, legitimate or the
reverse. But this is a mere trickle of water from the deep springs of
love, which is as the law of gravitation that keeps the stars in their
courses, and cares nothing for the ways that we trace for it. This
infinite love fulfils itself between souls far removed by time and
space; across the centuries it unites the thoughts of the living and
the dead; weaves close and chaste ties between old and young hearts;
through it, friend is nearer to friend, the child is closer in spirit
to the old man than are husband or wife in the whole course of
their lives. Between fathers and children these ties often exist
unconsciously, and "the world" as our forefathers used to say, counts
so little in comparison with love eternal, that the positions are
sometimes reversed, and the younger may not always be the most
childlike. How many sons are there who feel a devout paternal
affection for an old mother? And do we not often see ourselves small
and humble under the eyes of a child? The look with which the Bambino
of Botticelli contemplates the innocent Virgin is heavy with a sad
unconscious experience, and as old as the world.

The affection of Clerambault and Rosine was of this sort; fine,
religious, above the reach of reason. That is why, in the depths of
the troubled sea, below the pains and the conflicts of conscience
caused by the war, a secret drama went on, without signs, almost
without words, between these hearts united by a sacred love. This
unavowed sentiment explained the sensitiveness of their mutual
reactions. At first Rosine drew away in silence, disappointed in her
affection, her secret worship tarnished, by the effect of the war on
her father; she stood apart from him, like a little antique statue,
chastely draped. At once Clerambault became uneasy; his sensibility
sharpened by tenderness, felt instantly this _Noli me tangere_, and
from this arose an unexpressed estrangement between the father and
daughter. Words are so coarse, one would not dare to speak even in the
purest sense of disappointed love, but this inner discord, of which
neither ever spoke a word, was pain to both of them; made the young
girl unhap