of a woman of thirty. There are four ages in the life of woman; each
age creates a new woman. Vandenesse knew, no doubt, the law of these
transformations (created by our modern manners and morals), but he
forgot them in his own case,--just as the best grammarian will forget
a rule of grammar in writing a book, or the greatest general in the
field under fire, surprised by some unlooked-for change of base,
forgets his military tactics. The man who can perpetually bring his
thought to bear upon his facts is a man of genius; but the man of the
highest genius does not display genius at all times; if he did, he
would be like to God.

After four years of this life, with never a shock to the soul, nor a
word that produced the slightest discord in this sweet concert of
sentiment, the countess, feeling herself developed like a beautiful
plant in a fertile soil, caressed by the sun of a cloudless sky, awoke
to a sense of a new self. This crisis of her life, the subject of this
Scene, would be incomprehensible without certain explanations, which
may extenuate in the eyes of women the wrong-doing of this young
countess, a happy wife, a happy mother, who seems, at first sight,
inexcusable.

Life results from the action of two opposing principles; when one of
them is lacking the being suffers. Vandenesse, by satisfying every
need, had suppressed desire, that king of creation, which fills an
enormous place in the moral forces. Extreme heat, extreme sorrow,
complete happiness, are all despotic principles that reign over spaces
devoid of production; they insist on being solitary; they stifle all
that is not themselves. Vandenesse was not a woman, and none but women
know the art of varying happiness; hence their coquetry, refusals,
fears, quarrels, and the all-wise clever foolery with which they put