“‘That man,’ said Octave, ‘holds a charm and wears an aureole.’ the Count went to the prow and looked down on the Mediterranean. It happened to be fine, and, moved no doubt by the spectacle, he spoke these last words: ‘Ought we not, in the interests of human nature, to inquire what is the irresistible power which leads us to sacrifice an exquisite creature to the most fugitive of all pleasures, and in spite of our reason? In my conscience I heard cries. Honorine was not alone in her anguish. And yet I would have it!... I am consumed by remorse. In the Rue Payenne I was dying of the joys I had not; now I shall die in Italy of the joys I have had.... Wherein lay the discord between two natures, equally noble, I dare assert?’” For some minutes profound silence reigned on the terrace. Then the Consul, turning to the two women, asked, “Was she virtuous?” Mademoiselle des Touches rose, took the Consul’s arm, went a few steps away, and said to him: “Are not men wrong too when they come to us and make a young girl a wife while cherishing at the bottom of their heart some angelic image, and comparing us to those unknown rivals, to perfections often borrowed from a remembrance, and always finding us wanting?” “Mademoiselle, you would be right if marriage were based on passion; and that was the mistake of those two, who will soon be no more. Marriage with heart-deep love on both sides would be Paradise.” Mademoiselle des Touches turned from the Consul, and was immediately joined by Claude Vignon, who said in her ear: “A bit of a coxcomb is M. de l’Hostal.” “No,” replied she, whispering to Claude these words: “for he has not yet guessed that Honorine would have loved him.--Oh!” she exclaimed, seeing the Consul’s wife approaching, “his wife was listening! Unhappy man!” Eleven was striking by all the clocks, and the guests went home on foot along the seashore. “Still, that is not life,” said Mademoiselle des Touches. “That woman was one of the rarest, and perhaps the most extraordinary exceptions in intellect--a pearl! Life is made up of various incidents, of pain and pleasure alternately. The Paradise of Dante, that sublime expression of the ideal, that perpetual blue, is to be found only in the soul; to ask it of the facts of life is a luxury against which nature protests every hour. To such souls as those the six feet of a cell, and the kneeling chair are all they need.” “You are right,” said Leon de Lora; “but good-for-nothing as I may be, I cannot help admiring a woman who is capable, as that one was, of living by the side of a studio, under a painter’s roof, and never coming down, nor seeing the world, nor dipping her feet in the street mud.” “Such a thing has been known--for a few months,” said Claude Vignon, with deep irony.