No, there was more than that. She was not a woman to be seized, caught, held fast--it was like trying to take burning fire in one's hand. "She was neither for men nor women," some said of her, and the thought spurred them on. She eluded those who were in her presence, to the absent she seemed a meteor; if memory is itself luminous, its glow is heightened by reflection from others. This impression was strengthened by certain sayings of hers, some of which went the rounds. When the King fastened on her skates he said gallantly: "You have the most charming little foot." "Yes, from to-day onwards," she replied. A jovial colonel of artillery had dissipated a fortune on his comrades, on women, and on himself. "I lay my heart at your feet," he said. "Why, what would you have left to give away?" she laughed, and gave him her hand for the polonaise. She stopped in the polonaise before a young lieutenant, who turned scarlet. "You are one of those one could die for," he whispered. She took his arm in a friendly manner. "Well, to live for me would probably be a bore for both of us." She once went to the poet-in-ordinary of the regiment, a smart captain, to offer him a philippine. "Do you wish it?" she asked. "There is one thing we all wish in respect to you," he answered, "but we can never manage to say it--what can the reason be?" "To say what?" she asked. "'I love you.'" "Oh! of course, they know that I should laugh at it," she laughed; and offered him the half almond, and from that time they remained as good friends as ever. But there were other kinds of sayings of hers which aroused yet more respect. A discussion was going on one day at the fireside about a certain gate which was called the "gate of truth"; all who went through it were _obliged_ to say what they thought, upon which she exclaimed: "Ah, then I should get to know what I think myself!" One of those present said that those were exactly the words which the Danish Bishop Monrad had used when he heard of the gate. "And he was called a sphinx," added the speaker. She sat quietly for a little while, became paler and paler, and then got up. Some time after she was found in an adjoining room weeping. A learned man said at the dinner-table: "Those who are destined for something great know it from childhood." "Yes, but they know not for what!" she rejoined quickly. But then she became embarrassed. She tried to make a better thing of it, and said: "Some know it, and others don't," and then she became more abashed, and her embarrassment gave her an irresistible charm. People like to be conscious of the presence of lofty yearnings, even though they don't betray themselves. In a confidential circle one evening people were talking of a young widow. "She is rejuvenating herself in a new love," said one. "No, she is rather taking up a mission, a self-sacrificing mission," said another, who maintained that he knew her better.