This reasoning, which was a secret flattery to his pride, had the result of making him more tender towards Helen. But when the period of lucidity has begun in the case of a heart that loves, it does not close so rapidly, and a few days after this first shock Helen was to endure a second. This time her lover and she had met, as they sometimes did, to walk together in one of the avenues in the Jardin des Plantes. Helen was very fond of the peaceful, country-like park, with its fine trees reminding her of those in the grounds of the Archbishop at Bourges. She was especially fond of the place where she had been waiting for Armand, the long slender terrace the parapet of which runs along the side of the Rue Geoffroy-Saint-Hilaire. She sat down on a bench, from which she could follow the hands of a large clock placed against one of the inner buildings of the Hôpital de la Pitié. The melancholy courtyard of this house of griefs, with its pruned and leafless trees, the gloomy bars on the windows, and the old and dilapidated colouring of the walls, pleased her as a contrast to the young and happy intimacy of the dear romance of her love. She was sensible of a delightful lethargy in bringing back her thoughts to herself, while the great omnibuses went heavily down the low street almost beneath her feet. Some children were playing in the grove of the labyrinth, and their shouts reached her, causing her to renew far-off impressions obliterated by the years. At last she perceived Armand at the end of the terrace, and she rose to meet him, prettier than usual, as she knew from her lover's glance, thanks to the contrast between her toilet and the humble landscape--between her pink complexion and the dark leafage of the cedars. Then they walked in the quiet portion of the gardens, that portion which is set aside for plants--near trees two hundred years old, whose aged trunks, plastered like walls, rested on supports of iron. Whether the winter sky were bluish or veiled with mist, there was always sunshine so far as she was concerned, when Armand was there. They were wandering, then, side by side, in one of the avenues of this vast garden on a dull afternoon early in February, and Helen was telling her lover the story of the wife of one of Alfred's colleagues who had just been cast off by her husband, on his discovering that she had two lovers at once. "The rest," said the young man, with his evil smile, "have them in succession. The difference is a slight one." "The rest?" said Helen, who suddenly felt again the melancholy emotion of the previous week; "you do not believe that of all women?" "Nay, I have no bad opinion of them," he replied. "I believe that they are weak, and that men are deceivers. They find many men to swear that they love them, and they believe one out of every ten. That makes a pretty fair reckoning in the end." "Then you think that there is no woman in existence who has had only one love?"