"Yes, more intelligent; for in love the great thing is to have as much emotion as possible; and the real deception is to paralyse one's heart by clear-sightedness. Whether was it Valmont in the 'Liaisons'--dear Valmont--or the President's wife that was deceived? She who felt or he who calculated? Whether was it Elvire or Don Juan, who does not understand that Elvire, seeing that she has been able to intoxicate herself with love, is alone to be envied, while he himself is not? I know all this, but the inward demon is the stronger, and as soon as I begin to pay my addresses to a woman I am at pains to procure all such information concerning her as can render me incapable of loving her. "At my age, ought I not to write in this book: 'O divine fate! that has caused me so speedily to light upon the unique, the ideal woman, the sister-soul,' &c. (It would call for some of Gounod's music). Not exactly, Monsieur de Querne, but rather a lady of experience, who has had five or six lovers, who has retained sufficient taste to give the title of 'sentiment' to what belongs to fair and fitting and the most brutal sensation; a lady of tact, who has given herself a good deal of trouble to persuade you that you have seduced her. And the deuce take me if I am angry with her for such charming hypocrisy! Besides, what is the good of being angry with anyone for anything? Every human being is a pretentious little watch, which, seeing its hands go round, fancies that it is itself the cause of the motion. Foolishness and vanity! There is a delicate mechanism inside, and this mechanism has it that Madame ---- shall be a sentimental prostitute, her daughter a future quean, and I a mirthless debauchee, who parch my soul by setting forth all this instead of enjoying what is granted to me." "PARIS, _22nd May_ 1877. "An evening of folly yesterday and debauchery, but debauchery that was gay and healthy which is undoubtedly the truth. Nothing but this remains to me that does not leave disgust behind. "I went to see Duret, the painter, with that sad dog René W----, who first stopped in the Rue de la Tour-Auvergne to ask for Marie, a tall brunette. "I have a Marie here," said the doorkeeper, "but she is a tall blonde, red even," and in fact at a window in the first floor I saw a head of warm, golden hair, a dress of clear, bright blue, and a made complexion as extravagantly pink as a doll's. In my dark hours I have had sufficient knowledge of the degrading and consolatory fascination of these painted charms, of these slain bodies, of these ringed eyes, of all this lying!