When the world throws discredit on a woman's reputation, that modest and sacred veil which even a breath can destroy, that first flower of life, so delicate and ethereal, it smirches by its vile accusations her good name, and it destroys for ever her future chances of happiness; for she is henceforth deprived of the sad consolation of inspiring a devoted, sincere, and enduring love. It forces her into the degrading caprices of short-lived attachments, in which are to be found neither respect nor faith. For what man will ever see in a woman, who has been suspected of such shameful actions, anything but a charming fantasy, the desire of yesterday, the joy of to-day, and the forgetfulness of to-morrow? Who in her presence would dare to give way to those bursts of passionate confession, during which one longs to tell the one woman he believes worthy of his confidence, the joys, the sadness, the mysteries, the ravishments of the soul that she fills with love, and that only God can understand? Who is there, that in the midst of such moments of rapture, would not dread to hear the echo, the mocking and sinister echo, of all these slanderous tales about the woman at whose feet he is about to throw himself, to whom he longs to kneel? What reverence can we have for the idol we have so often seen treated with disrespect, outraged and insulted? CHAPTER XIV A FRIEND One morning, five or six days after the evening I had seen Madame de Pënâfiel at the Opéra, M. de Cernay entered my room. He was radiant. "Well," said he, "she has gone away. She has left Paris. She went yesterday, in the very height of the season. Does not that strike you as peculiar? But it was the only thing left for her to do; the scandal was too great. Society has laws that can not be disobeyed with impunity." "How is that?" said I to him. "Why has Madame de Pënâfiel quitted Paris?" "It is probable," he replied, "that some of her relations, out of respect for the good name of their family, have charitably told her that, until the bad impression she has made by her ridiculous and sudden passion for Ismaël, and by De Merteuil's death, was somewhat forgotten, it would be proper for her to go and spend some time at one of her country-seats; contrary to her usual custom, she has acceded to this advice, and gone to conquer her love in some solitude." "Did you ever present Ismaël to her, as she requested you?" "Impossible," replied the count, "he is as savage as a bear, capricious as a woman, and stubborn as a mule. I never could prevail on him to accompany me to the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, so I fancy it is more out of spite than from any respect of public opinion that Madame de Pënâfiel has decided to leave town." I admit that this sudden departure in the middle of the gay season seemed as strange as the request to be presented to Ismaël. But while I wished to continue on a subject which interested me, I was weary of all this revolting gossip, so I said to the count: