learn to live, in order that they may sit down at the banquet at which
they are to rest. . . ." Later on she writes as follows: "Do you imagine
that one love affair, or even two, can suffice for exhausting or taking
the freshness from a strong soul? I believed this, too, for a long
time, but I know now that it is quite the contrary. Love is a fire that
endeavours to rise and to purify itself. Perhaps the more we have failed
in our endeavours to find it, the more apt we become to discover it, and
the more we have been obliged to change, the more conservative we
shall become. Who knows? It is perhaps the terrible, magnificent and
courageous work of a whole lifetime. It is a crown of thorns which will
blossom and be covered with roses when our hair begins to turn white."

This was pure frenzy, and yet there were two beings ready to drink in
all this pathos, two living beings to live out this monstrous chimera.
Such are the ravages that a certain conception of literature may make.
By the example we have of these two illustrious victims, we may imagine
that there were others, and very many others, obscure and unknown
individuals, but human beings all the same, who were equally duped.
There are unwholesome fashions in literature, which, translated into
life, mean ruin. The Venice adventure shows up the truth of this in
bright daylight. This is its interest and its lesson.




V

THE FRIEND OF MICHEL (DE BOURGES)

LISZT AND COMTESSE D'AGOULT. _MAUPRAT_