"Ah, the other, my dear De Marsay! She has black eyes which have never
wept, but which burn; black eyebrows which meet and give her an air of
hardness contradicted by the compact curve of her lips, on which the
kisses do not stay, lips burning and fresh; a Moorish color that warms
a man like the sun. But--upon my word of honor, she is like you!"

"You flatter her!"

"A firm figure, the tapering figure of a corvette built for speed,
which rushes down upon the merchant vessel with French impetuosity,
which grapples with her and sinks her at the same time."

"After all, my dear fellow," answered De Marsay, "what has that got to
do with me, since I have never seen her? Ever since I have studied
women, my incognita is the only one whose virginal bosom, whose ardent
and voluptuous forms, have realized for me the only woman of my dreams
--of my dreams! She is the original of that ravishing picture called
_La Femme Caressant sa Chimere_, the warmest, the most infernal
inspiration of the genius of antiquity; a holy poem prostituted by
those who have copied it for frescoes and mosiacs; for a heap of
bourgeois who see in this gem nothing more than a gew-gaw and hang it
on their watch-chains--whereas, it is the whole woman, an abyss of
pleasure into which one plunges and finds no end; whereas, it is the
ideal woman, to be seen sometimes in reality in Spain or Italy, almost
never in France. Well, I have again seen this girl of the gold eyes,
this woman caressing her chimera. I saw her on Friday. I had a
presentiment that on the following day she would be here at the same
hour; I was not mistaken. I have taken a pleasure in following her
without being observed, in studying her indolent walk, the walk of the