"Ah! but that is long for your age, I tell you! And then you began badly; you set fire to your vital spirits before they had taken their flight; you drank vinegar to stunt your growth. Your head continued to grow none the less, and genius developed in it in spite of everything; but perhaps your heart has atrophied, perhaps you will never be complete either as man or as artist." These words, spoken with tranquil melancholy, irritated Laurent. "So you despise me, do you?" he said, rising. "No," she replied, holding out her hand, "I pity you!" And he saw two great tears roll slowly down her cheeks. Those tears produced a violent reaction in him; his own face was bathed in tears as he threw himself at Thérèse's feet, not like a lover declaring his passion, but like a child making his confession. "Ah! my poor dear friend!" he cried, taking her hands, "you are quite right to pity me, for I need it! I am unhappy, so unhappy that I am ashamed to tell you! This indescribable something that I have in my breast in place of a heart is crying incessantly for I know not what, nor do I know what to give it to appease it. I love God, and I do not believe in Him. I love all women, and I despise them all! I can say this to you, who are my comrade and my friend! I surprise myself sometimes on the point of idolizing a courtesan, whereas beside an angel I should probably be colder than a marble statue. Everything is turned topsy-turvy in my notions; it may be that everything has gone wrong in my instincts. Suppose I should tell you that the time has already passed when I can find cheerful ideas in wine! Yes, I am depressed when I am drunk, it seems, and they told me that the day before yesterday, in that debauch at Montmorency, I declaimed tragic things with a vehemence as ghastly as it was absurd. What do you suppose will become of me, Thérèse, if you do not have pity for me?" "To be sure, I have pity for you, my poor child," said Thérèse, wiping his eyes with her handkerchief; "but what good can that do you?" "Ah! but if you should love me, Thérèse! Do not take your hands away! Have you not given me leave to be a sort of friend to you?" "I have told you that I was fond of you; you replied that you could not believe in a woman's friendship." "I might, perhaps, believe in yours; you must have a man's heart, since you have a man's strength and talent. Give it to me." "I have not taken yours, and I propose to try to be a man for you," she replied; "but I don't quite know how to go about it. A man's friendship should be more outspoken and authoritative than I feel capable of being. In spite of myself, I shall pity you more than I shall scold you, as you see already! I had made up my mind to humiliate you to-day, to make you angry with me and yourself; instead of which, here I am weeping with you, and that doesn't advance matters at all."