"M. Coquelin has been very unhappy," said I. "He thought of going away." "Ah?" said my aunt. Coquelin was silent. "You think of going away?" "I merely spoke of it, mademoiselle. I must go away some time, you know. The Chevalier looks upon me as something eternal." "What's eternal?" asked the Chevalier. "There is nothing eternal, my child," said Mlle. de Bergerac. "Nothing lasts more than a moment." "O," said Coquelin, "I don't agree with you!" "You don't believe that in this world everything is vain and fleeting and transitory?" "By no means; I believe in the permanence of many things." "Of what, for instance?" "Well, of sentiments and passions." "Very likely. But not of the hearts that hold them. 'Lovers die, but love survives.' I heard a gentleman say that at Chalais." "It's better, at least, than if he had put it the other way. But lovers last too. They survive; they outlive the things that would fain destroy them,--indifference, denial, and despair." "But meanwhile the loved object disappears. When it isn't one, it's the other." "O, I admit that it's a shifting world. But I have a philosophy for that." "I'm curious to know your philosophy." "It's a very old one. It's simply to make the most of life while it lasts. I'm very fond of life," said Coquelin, laughing. "I should say that as yet, from what I know of your history, you have had no great reason to be." "Nay, it's like a cruel mistress," said Coquelin. "When once you love her, she's absolute. Her hard usage doesn't affect you. And certainly I have nothing to complain of now." "You're happy here then?" "Profoundly, mademoiselle, in spite of the Chevalier." "I should suppose that with your tastes you would prefer something more active, more ardent." "_Mon Dieu_, my tastes are very simple. And then--happiness, _cela ne se raisonne pas._ You don't find it when you go in quest of it. It's like fortune; it comes to you in your sleep." "I imagine," said Mlle. de Bergerac, "that I was never happy." "That's a sad story," said Coquelin. The young girl began to laugh. "And never unhappy." "Dear me, that's still worse. Never fear, it will come." "What will come?" "That which is both bliss and misery at once." Mlle. de Bergerac hesitated a moment. "And what is this strange thing?" she asked. On his side Coquelin was silent. "When it comes to you," he said, at last, "you'll tell me what you call it."