At this moment, then, De Marsay perceived that he had been fooled by the girl of the golden eyes, seeing, as he did, in perspective, all that night of which the delights had been poured upon him by degrees until they had ended by flooding him in torrents. He could read, at last, that page in effect so brilliant, divine its hidden meaning. The purely physical innocence of Paquita, the bewilderment of her joy, certain words, obscure at first, but now clear, which had escaped her in the midst of that joy, all proved to him that he had posed for another person. As no social corruption was unknown to him, as he professed a complete indifference towards all perversities, and believed them to be justified on the simple ground that they were capable of satisfaction, he was not startled at vice, he knew it as one knows a friend, but he was wounded at having served as sustenance for it. If his presumption was right, he had been outraged in the most sensitive part of him. The mere suspicion filled him with fury, he broke out with the roar of a tiger who has been the sport of a deer, the cry of a tiger which united a brute’s strength with the intelligence of the demon. “I say, what is the matter with you?” asked Paul. “Nothing!” “I should be sorry, if you were to be asked whether you had anything against me and were to reply with a _nothing_ like that! It would be a sure case of fighting the next day.” “I fight no more duels,” said De Marsay. “That seems to me even more tragical. Do you assassinate, then?” “You travesty words. I execute.” “My dear friend,” said Paul, “your jokes are of a very sombre color this morning.” “What would you have? Pleasure ends in cruelty. Why? I don’t know, and am not sufficiently curious to try and find out.... These cigars are excellent. Give your friend some tea. Do you know, Paul, I live a brute’s life? It should be time to choose oneself a destiny, to employ one’s powers on something which makes life worth living. Life is a singular comedy. I am frightened, I laugh at the inconsequence of our social order. The Government cuts off the heads of poor devils who may have killed a man and licenses creatures who despatch, medically speaking, a dozen young folks in a season. Morality is powerless against a dozen vices which destroy society and which nothing can punish.--Another cup!--Upon my word of honor! man is a jester dancing upon a precipice. They talk to us about the immorality of the _Liaisons Dangereuses_, and any other book you like with a vulgar reputation; but there exists a book, horrible, filthy, fearful, corrupting, which is always open and will never be shut, the great book of the world; not to mention another book, a thousand times more dangerous, which is composed of all that men whisper into each other’s ears, or women murmur behind their fans, of an evening in society.” “Henri, there is certainly something extraordinary the matter with you; that is obvious in spite of your active discretion.”