"When I think," he reflected, "that _formerly_" (that was the way he referred to the time when he did not love Thérèse) "the slightest pleasure was enough to restore me to life! I have to-day many things of which I used to dream--money, that is to say, six months of leisure and liberty, Italy under my feet, the sea at my door, a mistress as loving as a mother, and at the same time a serious and intelligent friend; and all these are not enough to rekindle my energy! Whose fault is it? Not mine, surely. I was not spoiled, and formerly it did not require so much to divert me. When I think that the lightest wine used to go to my head as quickly as the most generous vintage; that any saucy minx, with a provoking glance and a problematical costume, was enough to raise my spirits and to persuade me that such a conquest made me like one of the heroes of the Regency! Did I need an ideal creature like Thérèse? How in the devil did I ever persuade myself that both moral and physical beauty were necessary to me in love? I used to be able to content myself with the _least_; therefore the _most_ was certain to crush me, since better is the enemy of good. And then, too, is there such a thing as true beauty to the passions? The true is that which pleases. That with which one is sated is as if it had never been. And then there is the pleasure of changing, and therein, perhaps, lies the whole secret of life. To change is to renew one's self; to be able to change is to be free. Is the artist born to be a slave, and is it not slavery to remain faithful, or simply to pledge one's faith?" Laurent allowed himself to be persuaded by these old sophistries, always new to minds that are adrift. He soon felt that he must express them to some one, and that some one was Thérèse. So much the worse for her, since Laurent saw no one else. The evening conversation always began in about the same way: "What a frightfully stupid place this is!" One evening, he added: "It must be a ghastly bore to be in a picture. I shouldn't like to be that model you are copying. That poor lovely countess in the black and gold dress, who has been hanging there two hundred years, must have damned herself in heaven--if her soft eyes didn't damn her here--to see her image buried in this dismal country." "And yet," Thérèse replied, "she still has the privilege of beauty, the triumph which survives death and which the hand of a master perpetuates. Although she has crumbled to dust in her grave, she still has lovers; every day I see young men, utterly insensible to the merits of the painting, stand in ecstatic contemplation before that beauty which seems to breathe and smile with triumphant tranquillity."