We have one thing more that we cannot avoid saying, of two men so singularly in juxtaposition as Aaron Burr and Dr. Hopkins. Both had a perfect _logic_ of life, and guided themselves with an inflexible rigidity by it. Burr assumed individual pleasure to be the great object of human existence; Dr. Hopkins placed it in a life altogether beyond self. Burr rejected all sacrifice; Hopkins considered sacrifice as the foundation of all existence. To live as far as possible without a disagreeable sensation was an object which Burr proposed to himself as the _summum bonum_, for which he drilled down and subjugated a nature of singular richness. Hopkins, on the other hand, smoothed the asperities of a temperament naturally violent and fiery by a rigid discipline which guided it entirely above the plane of self-indulgence; and, in the pursuance of their great end, the one watched against his better nature as the other did against his worse. It is but fair, then, to take their lives as the practical workings of their respective ethical creeds. CHAPTER XXXIII. NEW ENGLAND IN FRENCH EYES. We owe our readers a digression at this point, while we return for a few moments to say a little more of the fortunes of Madame de Frontignac, whom we left waiting with impatience for the termination of the conversation between Mary and Burr. "_Enfin, chère Sybille_," said Madame de Frontignac, when Mary came out of the room, with her cheeks glowing and her eye flashing with a still unsubdued light, "_te voilà encore_! What did he say, _mimi_?--did he ask for me?" "Yes," said Mary, "he asked for you." "What did you tell him?" "I told him that you wished me to excuse you." "How did he look then?--did he look surprised?" "A good deal so, I thought," said Mary. "_Allons, mimi_,--tell me all you said, and all he said." "Oh," said Mary, "I am the worst person in the world; in fact, I cannot remember anything that I have said; but I told him that he must leave you, and never see you any more." "Oh, _mimi_, never!" Madame de Frontignac sat down on the side of the bed with such a look of utter despair as went to Mary's heart. "You know that it is best, Virginie; do you not?" "Oh, yes, I know it; _mais pourtant, c'est dur comme la mort_. Ah, well, what shall Virginie do now?" "You have your husband," said Mary. "_Je ne l'aime point_," said Madame de Frontignac. "Yes, but he is a good and honorable man, and you should love him." "Love is not in our power," said Madame de Frontignac. "Not every kind of love," said Mary, "but some kinds. If you have a kind, indulgent friend who protects you and cares for you, you can be grateful to him, you can try to make him happy, and in time you may come to love him very much. He is a thousand times nobler man, if what you say is true, than the one who has injured you so." "Oh, Mary!" said Madame de Frontignac, "there are some cases where we find it too easy to love our enemies."