"Your Majesty divines the rest?" "I divine, my friend, but--" Lecazes radiantly took a pinch of aromatic snuff, and asked: "But what?" "But who is to tie the bell on the cat's neck? Who is to persuade my niece--" "Her husband may convince her." "Her husband? Lecazes, you and I are not children. My good nephew Louis is unacquainted with the art of influencing his wife. He treats her with such profound respect that--well, they fail utterly to understand each other. Whence comes this awkwardness in the second generation in dealing with women? Louis is my reproach, though I must admit that Ferdinand does me honor. Besides, Lecazes, you know well that I have instructed Louis to advise his wife to act as tho no such impostor exists." Steps sounded in the adjoining apartment. "Silence!" said the King. "Tis Ferdinand or Louis." A moment later, the elegant martial figure of the Duke appeared in the door. "You arrive opportunely, nephew," said Louis XVIII, as the Duke respectfully kissed his hand. "Be seated and give us news. What says Marie Thérèse?" "Sire, I do not bring you pleasant news. Madame is strangely exalted. She has received a letter from that--man, which she carries over her heart." "Repress your jealousy," replied the King in banter. "I experience only sadness," replied the Duke with sincerity, "She suffers greatly and I suffer with her. She has not slept for three nights nor eaten for three days. She passes hours in prayer--" "That is your fault!" "Mine, sire?" exclaimed the Duke. "Emphatically so, my little Louis. When a woman, such as is your wife, a woman who would die rather than even look at another man,--when she becomes fad, 'tis that her husband is indifferent. Listen; the time has come when I must speak the truth: you have behaved like a simpleton. You have never won her heart. You have treated her with a veneration such as the devote evinces toward the marble statues of saints." "Sire, you know well that I am more in my element at the head of a regiment than with women. I do not understand them." "The devil! This cursed generation seems to have been born blasé, destitute even of a sense of beauty. The reason that I love your brother Ferdinand is that he is the living reproduction of our ancestor, Henry of Navarre. The 'ultras' are scandalized at his romance with the English girl. Well, we must beautify our life with illusion or we should become stone. I have kept my heart in its place always, even though I have been a wretched invalid. Not that I have given myself up to material joys. We become divine through that exaltation evoked by the presence of woman. The Countess is the intermediary between soul and faith,--faith in the beautiful. You know that here there is no possibility of descent into matter--An old man in ruined health!" The Duke frowned, struggling between respect for his uncle and repugnance towards his theories.