DUCHESS. (_Bursting forth_) Nonsense! LADIES. Oh, Duchess! BELLAC. (_Bowing to the_ DUCHESS) And yet, it exists. Noble spirits have felt it, great poets sung its praises, and in the seats of Heaven, the apotheosis of our dreams, we see, enshrined about with haloes of ethereal brightness, those immortal figures, everlasting proof of an undying and psychic love: Beatrice, Laura—— DUCHESS. Laura, the mother of eleven, my dear Monsieur! LADIES. Duchess! DUCHESS. Eleven! And you call her love psychic! MME. DE LOUDAN. They were not Petrarch’s, Duchess; let’s have fair play. BELLAC. Héloise—— DUCHESS. Oh, she! BELLAC. And their sisters of more recent date: Elvira, Eloa, and many others, known and unknown. That cohort of pure and unknown loves, is growing from day to day—I call all womankind to witness! LADIES. Ah, my dear, how true! BELLAC. The soul has a language all its own; its aspirations, its pleasures and its tortures belong to it: are its very existence. And if it be chained to the body, it is like the wing of a bird: in order to raise it to the heights! LADIES. Ah, bravo! BELLAC. (_Rising_) This is what modern science ought to take into consideration—(_Looking at_ SAINT-RÉAULT) that science which a leaden materialism drags down to earth—I shall add, since our venerable master and friend made an allusion not long since—perhaps a trifle over-hasty—to a loss which science, I hope, will not have to complain of—I shall add—(_Looking at_ TOULONNIER, _to whom_ SAINT-RÉAULT _is speaking_) in fine, this is what _he_ should teach to the youth who have been under the guidance of Revel, he—whoever he may be—who will be chosen to carry on the work; and not only (asking the pardon of our illustrious colleague) upon the insufficient authority vested in those who have “acquired the right,” or erudition, or age—ought he to base his claim, but upon the irresistible power of a mind imbued with the spirit of youth and of a fiery ardor which is not to be extinguished! VOICES. Bravo!—Charming!—Exquisite!—Delicious! (_Everyone rises. Confused murmurs of conversation. The ladies surround_ BELLAC.) DUCHESS. (_Aside_) That for you, Saint-Réault! PAUL. (_Aside_) Candidate number two! MME. DE LOUDAN. Ah, Monsieur Bellac! SUZANNE. Dear Professor! BARONESS. A veritable banquet of the soul! MME. ARRIÉGO. Beautiful! BELLAC. Oh, ladies, I have but given words to your ideas. MME. DE LOUDAN. Flatterer! Charmer! BELLAC. Are we reconciled yet, Marquise? MME. DE LOUDAN. How can one be angry with you? (_Introducing the_ BARONESS) Madame la baronne de Boines—another conquest! She is at your feet already! BARONESS. You made me weep, Monsieur. BELLAC. Oh, Madame la baronne! MME. ARRIÉGO. Isn’t it superb! BARONESS. Superb! SUZANNE. And how warm he is! (BELLAC _looks for his handkerchief_) You haven’t one? Here! (_She gives him her handkerchief_) BELLAC. Oh, Mademoiselle! MME. DE CÉRAN. Suzanne! The idea!