"We will enjoy charming evenings. She is intelligent and I shall read her my manuscripts: here and there, I need a woman's opinion. It is astonishing that heretofore this has not troubled me more. When shall I see her again. To-day? No. To-morrow? No. But shall I write to her? Twice daily. She will answer in little brief and impersonal phrases, with shafts of raillery. I shall let her rail at me: I can do it, for I am sure of my case. Well, Tuesday? We shall see. Happiness leaves me cold and its regular perspectives sadden me. Thus, I, too, have pursued the pretty beast and I am satisfied. With what? With having put my foot on its shadow." MAN AND THE PRETTY BEAST The road, under the sun, lies, white and dusty, lies under the sun. The pretty beast, what is it like? It runs too swiftly, one sees it run, one does not see it, the pretty beast. The man is naked, panting and with cruel eyes, like a hunter, naked, however, and disarmed. "Pretty beast, I would trap thee, ah I pretty beast, I have thee, pretty beast." The man has bounded, he has put his foot on the pretty beast, his bare foot, very gently, so as not to hurt it. "Ah! I have thee, pretty beast!" "No, no, thou dost not have me. Thy bare foot is resting on my shadow." "Ah! this time, pretty beast, thou art my prisoner; I have thee, pretty beast, I have thee in my hands." "Thou hast me and thou seest me not, for the odor of my body blinds men. Thou hast me, and see! "See, I escape thee and I run. Run after me, run after the pretty beast." "Ah! I am weary with running for sixty years; come, my son, it is thou who will catch the pretty beast. "I am weary, I sit down to rest; go, it is now thy hour to run after the pretty beast!" Having finished this rhapsody, Entragues wrote the beginning of the story of Gaetan Solange, which had long tormented him. It was a way of explaining himself by means of an anticipated commentary, for he was on the verge, doubtless! of a similar state of soul: would not Hubert and Gaetan be true counterparts, to-morrow, if this continued? CHAPTER XXXI THE INFAMY OF BEING HAPPY "I now see _distinctly_," he said, "what manner of people these maskers are." Poe: _Hop-Frog_ Solange's pessimism was practical: he perseveringly endeavored to make his life wretched by all sorts of very simple, yet ingenious combinations. First of all, principles: Men lie and women deceive. There are but two motives to human acts--lucre and lust. All women with pleasant faces conceal objectionable defects. Men who are not wicked are stupid. Other principles: All food is tainted or adulterated; it is useless to seek anything better than the bad. All streets are hideous, full of vile women, rubbish, drains and filth. All apartments lack air and light. And so on.