"What? why something else, of course! I want something else. How can I tell what? If I only knew--But, you see, I'm sick of balls, of supper parties, of merry-makings. It's always the same thing over again. It's mortal. Men are unbearable, oh! yes, unbearable." Maxime burst out laughing. Ardent desires pierced through the fashionable beauty's aristocratic bearing. She no longer blinked her eyes; the wrinkle on her forehead became more harshly accentuated; her lip, like a sulky child's, stood out, full of passion, in quest of those enjoyments for which she longed though unable to name them. She beheld her companion laughing, but she was too transported to stop; half reclining and swayed by the motion of the carriage, she continued in short jerky sentences: "Yes, really, you are unbearable. I don't say that for you, Maxime; you are too young. But if I only told you how Aristide wearied me in the early days! And the others too! those who have loved me. You know, we are two good friends, I don't stand on ceremony with you; well! really, there are days when I am so tired of living my life of a rich, adored and honoured woman, that I should like to be a Laure d'Aurigny, one of those ladies who live like men." And as Maxime laughed louder than ever, she laid more stress upon her words: "Yes, a Laure d'Aurigny. It would surely be less insipid, not so much always the same thing." She kept silent a few minutes, as though she were conjuring up the life she would lead, were she Laure. Then, she resumed in a tone of discouragement: "After all, those ladies must have their troubles also. There is decidedly nothing really amusing. It's enough to make one sick of life. I was right when I said there was something else wanting; I can't guess what, you know; but something else, something which does not happen to every one, which one does not meet with every day, which would give a rare, an unknown enjoyment." Her voice had softened. She uttered these last words as though she were seeking something, gradually falling into a deep reverie. The carriage was then ascending the avenue which leads to the way out of the Bois. The darkness increased; the undergrowth, on either side, flew past them like two grey walls; the yellow painted iron chairs, on which the holiday-making citizens lounge on fine evenings, sped along the side-walks, unoccupied, and wrapt in that black melancholy peculiar to garden furniture overtaken by winter; and the rumble, the dull and cadenced sound of the returning vehicles, was wafted over the deserted way like some sad wail. No doubt Maxime felt all the bad form there was in finding life amusing. If he was still young enough to yield to an outburst of delighted admiration, he possessed an egotism too vast, an indifference too scoffing, he already felt too much real weariness, to do other than declare himself sick of everything, satiated, done for. He was usually in the habit of glorifying in this avowal.