first fruits in all things have a delicious savor. Amongst men love
becomes a passion; strength leads to abuse. Amongst old men it turns
to vice; impotence tends to extremes. Henri was at once an old man, a
man, and a youth. To afford him the feelings of a real love, he needed
like Lovelace, a Clarissa Harlowe. Without the magic lustre of that
unattainable pearl he could only have either passions rendered acute
by some Parisian vanity, or set determinations with himself to bring
such and such a woman to such and such a point of corruption, or else
adventures which stimulated his curiosity.

The report of Laurent, his _valet de chambre_ had just given an
enormous value to the girl with the golden eyes. It was a question of
doing battle with some secret enemy who seemed as dangerous as he was
cunning; and to carry off the victory, all the forces which Henri
could dispose of would be useful. He was about to play in that eternal
old comedy which will be always fresh, and the characters in which are
an old man, a young girl, and a lover: Don Hijos, Paquita, De Marsay.
If Laurent was the equal of Figaro, the duenna seemed incorruptible.
Thus, the living play was supplied by Chance with a stronger plot than
it had ever been by dramatic author! But then is not Chance too, a man
of genius?

"It must be a cautious game," said Henri, to himself.

"Well," said Paul de Manerville, as he entered the room. "How are we
getting on? I have come to breakfast with you."

"So be it," said Henri. "You won't be shocked if I make my toilette
before you?"