"Oh, it is a naturally erroneous paraphrase of an expression of which, like you, like many others, I have often made use. I have said: 'I no longer count. None of us any longer counts.' Which means: 'Whatever our value may formerly have been, the common cause is too grand for us to indulge in the fatuity of putting a value upon ourselves. Whoever we may be, we are reduced to nothingness by something superior to ourselves.' It is a rather stern assertion, and just because it is so it sets imaginations to work. Our amiable gossips immediately translate it into a child's picture, impressive by its crude coloring, in which they see me shivering on a pallet." "And the story of Mme. de Boulainvilliers?" "So they have told you the story of Mme. de Boulainvilliers as well? She is a truly generous woman, but not an imprudent one. She so well knows what a snare there is for her in the pleasure of coddling her hundred and twenty soldiers, that, having no direct heirs, she has put a part of her property into an annuity, in order to become a charge upon no one as long as she may live. All the rest she gives away. She detests her relations and delights in frustrating them. No one would talk about her, perhaps, if it were not for the cream of the end of the story, a little detail which happens to be true, and which does good." "Let us have done with our good women and our special cases. But you, yourself, what do you think, on the whole, of sacrifice?" "The general opinion is that men are without exception ruled by base personal interests; but this view only takes into consideration the calm level of the human ocean; in reality it has its tempests, which are the passions, and man in a state of passion no longer thinks of his interests. In the depths of my soul I believe that sacrifice may very well cause the greatest happiness." XXIV Some little time later Odette went to see Clotilde. It was early in a mortally cold winter; for two months already cold weather had raged, bitter and uninterrupted. The question of fuel was beginning to be serious; there were rumors of restrictions in many things. Paris was uneasy, though the newspapers, with their miracle-working ink, turned adversity into beauty. Odette found Clotilde in her usual atmosphere, a happy accident having permitted her apartment to be warmed. She was surrounded by books and flowers, and wore a robe of some silken fabric which moulded itself to her sinuous form. She at once exclaimed: "Do you notice anything changed here?" "Not you, certainly!" "I have had the rooms done over; how do you like this gray?" "It's lovely! With the cherry color of the curtains it is really perfect." "Ah! I was sure that you would think so! The others go through the rooms as if they were daft; they don't notice anything." "You have a new photograph of your husband. It is wonderfully good."