"Well, this fault seems to increase with age,--it has attained truly colossal proportions now, so colossal, in fact, that it has become almost a virtue." "What do you mean by that?" "I mean that, far from experiencing any desire to imitate them, I feel only the greatest pity and compassion for those unfortunate women whom a mad love of society plunges into a whirlpool of gaiety and dissipation. The mere thought of the tiresome, unsatisfactory, wearing manner in which they enjoy themselves makes me shudder. Think of attending three or four balls or receptions every evening, to say nothing of the play; of rushing madly from one's dressmaker to one's milliner, and from there to one's florist; of dressing and undressing oneself, and of trying on gowns, and having one's hair arranged; of making three toilets a day, and dancing and riding and waltzing from morning till night. One must have nerves of steel, and the constitution of a prize-fighter to stand such a fatiguing life. How different all this is from the delightful rest I enjoy on this armchair, finding inexpressible enjoyment in my languid contemplation of earth and sky. When winter comes, I find myself equally happy half dozing in my armchair, or nestling under my eider-down quilt while the hail dashes against the window-panes. I thus enjoy all the varying charms of _dolce far niente_ at all seasons of the year, thinking and dreaming, sometimes awake, sometimes half asleep. I am quite capable, I must admit, of spending an entire day stretched out on the grass, watching the passing clouds, listening to the sighing of the wind, the buzzing of the insects, and the soft murmur of the brooklet,--in short, my dear Valentine, no savage denizen of the forest ever appreciated the infinite delight of a free and idle life more keenly than I do, and never was there a person more devoutly grateful to Heaven who has provided such simple and innocent enjoyment for us. But what is the matter, Valentine?" asked Madame de Luceval, gazing at her friend in surprise. "What is the meaning of these troubled looks, this emotion which you cannot conceal, try as you will? Valentine, once more I entreat you, answer me." A brief silence followed this appeal, after which Madame d'Infreville, passing her hand across her forehead, replied, in a slightly constrained voice: "Listen to the conclusion of my story, Florence, and you will, perhaps, divine what I cannot and dare not tell you." "Speak, then, I beg of you."