Ormond gave no interruption to his calculations, and the petit-maître, in a tone of philosophic fatuity, asked, “Of the numbers of your English or Irish wives--all excellent--how many, I pray you, do you calculate are now married to the man they first, _fell in love with_, as they call it? My good sir, not five per cent., depend on it. The thing is morally impossible, unless girls are married out of a convent, as with us in France, and very difficult even then; and after all, what are the French husbands the better for it? I understand English husbands think themselves best off. I don’t pretend to judge; but they seem to prefer what they call domestic happiness to the French _esprit de société_. Still, this may be prejudice of education--of country: each nation has its taste. Every thing is for the best in this world, for people who know how to make the best of it. You would not think, to look at me, I was so philosophic: but even in the midst of my military career I have thought--thought profoundly. Every body in France _thinks_ now,” said M. de Connal, taking a pinch of snuff with a very pensive air. “_Every body_ in France _thinks_ now!” repeated Ormond. “Every man of a certain rank, that is to say.” “That is to say, of your rank,” said Ormond. “Nay, I don’t give myself as an example; but--you may judge--I own I am surprised to find myself philosophizing here in the Black Islands--but one philosophizes every where.” “And you would have more time for it here, I should suppose, than in Paris?” “Time, my dear sir--no such thing! Time is merely in idea; but _Tais-toi Jean Jacques! Tais-toi Condillac!_ To resume the chain of our reasoning--love and marriage--I say it all comes to much the same thing in France and in these countries--after all. There is more gallantry, perhaps, before marriage in England, more after marriage in France--which has the better bargain? I don’t pretend to decide. Philosophic doubt for me, especially in cases where ‘tis not worth while to determine; but I see I astonish you, Mr. Ormond.” “You do, indeed,” said Ormond, ingenuously. “I give you joy--I envy you,” said M. de Connal, sighing. “After a certain age, if one lives in the world, one can’t be astonished--that’s a lost pleasure.” “To me who have lived out of the world it is a pleasure, or rather a sensation--I am not sure whether I should call it a pleasure--that is not likely to be soon exhausted,” said Ormond. “A sensation! and you are not sure whether you should call it a pleasure. Do you know you’ve a genius for metaphysics?” “I!” exclaimed Ormond.