"Why go on a wild goose chase? As for me, I am perfectly sincere." You must not, however, believe that this perfect sincerity prevented him from having elevated views. He prided himself on having a weakness for imagination and the unforeseen, and if he would have been offended at being called a dishonorable man, he would, perhaps have been still more hurt if anybody had attributed middle-class tastes to him. Accordingly, in love affairs, he expressed a most virtuous horror of adultery, for if he had committed it, it would not have been able to bear that testimony to himself, which was so sweet to his conscience: "Ah! As for me, I can declare that I never wronged anybody!" While, on the other hand, he was not satisfied with pleasure which was paid for by the hour, and which debases _the noblest desires of the heart_, to the vulgar satisfaction of a physical requirement. What he required, so he used to say, while lifting his eyes up to heaven was: "Something rather more ideal than that!" That search after the ideal did not, indeed, cost him any great effort, as it was limited to not going to licensed houses of ill-fame, and to not accosting streetwalkers with the simple words: "How much?" It consisted chiefly in wishing to be gallant even with such women, and in trying to persuade himself that they liked him for his own sake, and in preferring those whose manner, dress and looks allowed room for suppositions and romantic illusions, such as: "She might be taken for a little work-girl who has not yet lost her virtue." "No, I rather think she is a widow, who has met with misfortunes." "What if she be a fashionable lady in disguise!" And other nonsense, which he knew to be such, even while imagining it, but whose imaginary flavor was very pleasant to him, all the same. With such tastes, it was only natural that this pilgrim followed and pushed up against women in the large shops, and whenever there was a crowd, and that he especially looked out for those ladies of easy virtue, for nothing is more exciting than those half-closed shutters, behind which a face is indistinctly seen, and from which one hears a furtive: _"P'st! P'st!"_ He used to say to himself: "Who is she? Is she young and pretty? Is she some old woman, who is terribly skillful at her business, but who yet does not venture to show herself any longer? Or is she some new beginner, who has not yet acquired the boldness of an old hand? In any case, it is the unknown, perhaps, that is my ideal during the time it takes me to find my way upstairs;" and always as he went up, his heart beat, as it does at a first meeting with a beloved mistress.