As much as ever woman can show kindness and sympathy to a friend
in trouble, she has shown to me. And yet, strange to say, all this
kindness has upon me the effect of moonlight,--radiance without
warmth; she possesses perfection of form, but there is no soul; with
her all is premeditation, but not nature. There speaks again the
sceptic; but I shall never be so intoxicated as to lose my capacity
of observation. If this divinity were kind, she would be kind to
everybody. Thus, for instance, the way she treats her husband is
enough to destroy any illusion as to her heart. The unfortunate Davis
is such a bloodless creature that he feels chilly in the hottest
sunshine, and oh! so chilly at her side. I never noticed in her the
slightest sign of compassion for his misery. He simply does not exist,
for her. This millionnaire, in the midst of all his wealth, is so poor
that it would rouse any one's pity. He is apparently indifferent
to everything; and yet the human being, with ever so little
consciousness, feels kindness. The best proof of it is that Davis
feels grateful to me because I speak to him now and then about his
health.

Perhaps it is the instinctive attraction of the weaker towards the
stronger organism. When I look at that face as white as chalk, no
bigger than my fist, those feet like walking-sticks, and that shrunken
figure, wrapped up in a plaid during the hottest of weathers, I am
truly sorry for him. But I will not make myself out better than I am.
I may pity the man; but compassion will not stand in my way. It has
often struck me that, when woman is in question, man becomes pitiless;
it is still a remnant of the animal instinct that fights to the
uttermost for the female. In such a fight between human beings,
whatever shape it takes, the weaker goes to the wall. Even honor is no