"Oh, German idealism--we know what that means! We've no use for their superiority; let them carry it elsewhere--let them leave us alone. Why do they thrust themselves in upon us and set old wounds throbbing by their detested presence? We don't go near _them_, or ever wish to hear their ugly names or behold their _visages de bois_; therefore the most rudimentary good taste, the tact one would expect even from naked savages, might suggest to them to seek their amusements elsewhere. But _their_ taste, _their_ tact--I can scarcely trust myself to speak!" Madame de Brindes did speak however at considerable further length and with a sincerity of passion which left one quite without arguments. There was no argument to meet the fact that Vendemer's attitude wounded her, wounded her daughter, _jusqu'au fond de l'âme_, that it represented for them abysses of shame and suffering and that for himself it meant a whole future compromised, a whole public alienated. It was vain doubtless to talk of such things; if people didn't _feel_ them, if they hadn't the fibre of loyalty, the high imagination of honour, all explanations, all supplications were but a waste of noble emotion. M. Vendemer's perversity was monstrous--she had had a sickening discussion with him. What she desired of me was to make one last appeal to him, to put the solemn truth before him, to try to bring him back to sanity. It was as if he had temporarily lost his reason. It was to be made clear to him, _par exemple_, that unless he should recover it Mademoiselle de Brindes would unhesitatingly withdraw from her engagement. "Does she _really_ feel as you do?" I asked. "Do you think I put words into her mouth? She feels as a _fille de France_ is obliged to feel!" "Doesn't she love him then?" "She adores him. But she won't take him without his honour." "I don't understand such refinements!" I said.