"Ah! confidences?" Entragues told himself. "This is excellent. He belongs to those whose heart overflows with sentiment as a brook under a heavy rain, and he is going to tell me his life. Perfect. I am conscious of a mischievous curiosity. How I will enjoy it!" A slight quiver of joy coursed through him, and his fingers twisted through nervousness. "Isn't she?" "Are you speaking of Madame Magne? I have known her only a short while. She is an intelligent woman." "It is evident," Moscowitch rejoined, "that her beauty, her charm, and her grace have not made a strong impression on you. It is surprising." "Why so? The sympathies of any group do not necessarily go to the same woman, though she have intelligence and an Aspasian beauty. The charm that has captivated you does not exist for me, or exists only in a less degree." "Ah! you reason like a very sensible Frenchman. As for myself, I believe I am incapable of reasoning on this point." "This does not prevent me," Entragues returned, "from doing justice to her qualities. She is, to put it simply, a complete woman. This word, which implies everything and specifies nothing, is appropriate, for I believe her to be very flexible, and made to pattern herself, like the ivy, on the oak to which she will cling." "I hope," Entragues reflected, "that I speak clearly and with an abundance of commonplaces, for I wish to be understood." After a brief silence, Moscowitch slowly uttered these words which he seemed to be repeating to himself: "Yes, I think I will be happy with her." Entragues controlled his emotions and asked in a calm voice: "Are you going to marry her?" "Yes, if she consents. That is my intention and my dearest wish. She says neither no nor yes. I don't know what to do about it." "You don't displease her?" "You think not?" "I mean," Entragues answered, "that you please her. But she herself does not know it and you must teach her to read her own heart. Recall the words of Madame Récamier to Benjamin Constant: 'Dare, my friend, dare!' You perhaps don't know the French women, but trust to my experience. A little force doesn't displease them. I don't say violence, I say force. The iron hand gloved in velvet can play a decisive rôle in love; nothing more enlightens a woman about her own sentiments than a kiss which goes further than kisses. Then she knows what she wishes and nine times out of ten she will love, through gratitude, the bold man who has drawn her from indecision. Note this well: she runs after her modesty as one runs after one's gold." Moscowitch, very interested, drew nearer to Entragues and, as if to appropriate him to himself, passed his arm under Entragues', saying: "May I?"