And she has led them through strange paths into the dwelling-place of death, and where love and life live together, for these two are never separated, and, through many places of terror and delight, to that ultimate spot, occult, remote, where dwells the soul of woman. There the youngest of her slaves found himself one day outstripping his brother, and saw with living eyes the mystery,—and thenceforward he was no more Paul Verlaine; he was the prophet and interpreter of woman. To him alone has the secret been revealed; to him alone, the mantle of deceit she wears, the slavish dress of the centuries, is no concealment. He has seen, has known, and he understands. “The very worst thing in the world,” says an unknown writer, “is the soul of a woman.” Forced to inaction, and fed on lies, her principal power, founded on man’s weakness, curiosity, and the imagination of the intellect, lead her in many wandering ways. Tasting but few of the actual joys, the triumphs, and the trials of life, from the harem of her slavery her fancy has wandered with the winds. In her mind the unique and fatal experimenter, she has known all crimes, all horrors, as well as martyrdoms and joys. And this, while her gentle feminine hands have ministered to suffering, her voice has cheered, her smile has illumined, and her divine patience has endured. Consider these lines—their spiritual intuition is the parallel of Wordsworth in his limpid moods; their knowledge, like a single glow of summer lightning, illumines all the darkened land as the glimmering patient light of Bourget’s candle in cycles of encyclopedics will never do. Behold the woman! “_Beauté des femmes, leur faiblesse et ces mains pâles, Qui font souvent le bien et peuvent tout le mal._” The appealing weakness of women is the first note, invariably stronger than command—and then the reference to their hands. This is very characteristic of Verlaine—they haunt him. “_Les chères mains qui furent miennes, Toutes petites, toutes belles._” . . . . . . “_Mains en songes—main sur mon âme._” The last is a very poignant line—and again in “Ariettes Oubliées,”— “_Le piano que baise une main frêle._” Then comes the reflection as to the eyes of women, profoundly true and observant, contained in the last two verses of the first stanza:— “_Et ces yeux où plus rien ne reste d’animal Que juste assez pour dire ‘assez’ aux fureurs mâles!_” Then the next stanza:— “_Et toujours, maternelle endormeuse des râles, Même quand elle ment—._” Here is the creature who could be both nurse and courtesan—concise and convincing classification. Then he continues relating how, as man as well as poet, he has vibrated to the clear soprano of “_Cette voix! Matinal Appel, ou chant bien doux à vêpres, ou frais signal, Ou beau sanglot qui va mourir au pli des châles! . . ._”