still in the virginity of vice. Her firm walk, her supple figure,
her rosy, open nostrils, her large eyes, slightly tinged with
blue, indicated one of those ardent natures which sbed around
them a sort of voluptuous perfume, like Eastern vials, which,
close them as tightly as you will, still let some of their
perfume escape. Finally, whether it was simple nature or a breath
of fever, there passed from time to time in the eyes of this
woman a glimmer of desire, giving promise of a very heaven for
one whom she should love. But those who had loved Marguerite were
not to be counted, nor those whom she had loved.

In this girl there was at once the virgin whom a mere nothing had
turned into a courtesan, and the courtesan whom a mere nothing
would have turned into the most loving and the purest of virgins.
Marguerite had still pride and independence, two sentiments
which, if they are wounded, can be the equivalent of a sense of
shame. I did not speak a word; my soul seemed to have passed into
my heart and my heart into my eyes.

"So," said she all at once, "it was you who came to inquire after
me when I was ill?"

"Yes."

"Do you know, it was quite splendid of you! How can I thank you
for it?"

"By allowing me to come and see you from time to time."

"As often as you like, from five to six, and from eleven to