“For there is in every man an insurmountable need to fall on his knees before no matter what idol, if it remains standing and allows itself to be adored. At certain hours, a prayerbell rings in the depth of the heart, the sound of which throws him upon his knees as it cries: ‘Kneel!’ And then the very being who ignores God in His churches and scorns kings upon their thrones, the being who has already exhausted the hollow idols of glory and fame, not having a temple to pray in, makes a fetich for himself in order to have a divinity to adore, so as not to be alone in his impiety, and to see, above his head when he arises, something that shall not be empty and vacant space. This man seeks a woman, takes all that he has, talent passion, youth, enthusiasm, all the wealth of his heart, and throws them at her feet like the mantle that Raleigh spread out before Elizabeth, and he says to this woman: ‘Walk, O my queen; trample under your blessed feet the heart of your adoring slave!’ This man is a fool, is he not? For when the queen has passed, what remains upon the mantle? Mud!” Gerfaut accompanied these words with such a withering glance that the one for whom they were intended felt her blood freeze in her veins, and withdrew the hand her husband had kept till then in his; she soon arose and seated herself at the other side of the table, under the pretext of getting nearer the lamp to work, but in reality in order to withdraw from Christian’s vicinity. Clemence had expected her lover’s anger, but not his scorn; she had not strength to endure this torture, and the conjugal love which had, not without difficulty, inflamed her heart for the last few days, fell to ashes at the first breath of Octave’s indignation. Mademoiselle de Corandeuil greeted the Vicomte’s words indulgently; for, from consummate pride, she separated herself from other women. “So then,” said she, “you pretend that if to-day love is painted under false and vulgar colors, the fault is the model’s, not the artist’s.” “You express my thought much better than I could have done it myself,” said Gerfaut, in an ironical tone; “where are the angels whose portraits are called for?” “They are in our poetical dreams,” said Marillac, raising his eyes to the ceiling with an inspired air. “Very well! tell us your dreams then, instead of copying a reality which it is impossible for you to render poetic, since you yourselves see it without illusions.” Gerfaut smiled bitterly at this suggestion, artlessly uttered by the Baron.