The real difficulty, then, does not lie in this direction. The difficulty is to discover a sure method of capturing men. We have already outlined the two theories; there are likewise two practical systems. The first consists in really devoting heart and soul to the matter, the second in the mere playing of a part. The first is concrete, actual, full of zest and energy; the second is nothing but abstractions, coquetry, poses, and never extends beyond mere sentimentality. Anne of France, manifestly wedded to the first system, speaks of it with a warmth and yet with a wealth of circumlocution that show, not only how much the question interested her, but how troublesome she found it. A woman, she thinks, should not push enthusiasm so far as to run to meet love; she may wait for it, it comes soon enough unsought. In spite of her very real simplicity, she always impresses us as having a touch of pride; and besides, she was writing for her daughter. But what a noble heart is hers, how ardent and how generous! She distrusts the love excited merely by physical beauty, because she regards it as imperfect, undistinguished, commonplace, of little stability, subject to all sorts of disappointments and regrets; but no less—accustomed as she is to deal with things broadly and grandly—does true love, that which wells up from the heart and mind, and is only strengthened and sanctified with increasing years, seem to her precious and firm. When a man can analyse his love and tell himself that it depends on some definable beauty, however exquisite—that of the eyes, perhaps, or that of a charming manner or an uncommon mind—in this case the love is slight. But when it takes entire possession of him, when he knows not how to describe it nor to what to attribute it, when it surprises him in the plenitude of his vigour, and keeps him in subjection to another person of whose will he becomes the mere echo; above all, when it inspires him with the overpowering consciousness that henceforth his life may be bounded by no other horizon: then it has a superb range; it possesses soul and heart; the rest is merely supplementary—a more complete intimacy, a pledge of affection. The woman a man most loves is not the one he covets most. At twenty it is easy to confuse sensations with sentiments; and that is why true love is not known till later. It is a gradual unfolding; and then it becomes so ardent as to bring into play all the impulsive forces of the mind. It is by this new emotional fruitfulness, by this responsiveness, so to speak, to the spur, that a man’s worth is measured. Externally, on their commonplace side, all men are alike; their souls alone have different physiognomies: a time comes when they are stirred to the depths, shaken out of themselves, and then it is seen that there are great souls and small. Not too great, however, nor too small; but quite human! We cannot expect miracles, or look for the perfection God has reserved for Himself. But sometimes the reality