joy and despair, in their religion and irreligion--they would almost
all go mad if they were not decimated by the mortality peculiar to
their class, and if happy chances did not lift one now and then from
the slough in which they dwell. To understand the very depths of the
wretchedness of this horrible existence, one must know how far in
madness a creature can go without remaining there, by studying La
Torpille's violent ecstasy at the priest's feet. The poor girl gazed
at the paper of release with an expression which Dante has overlooked,
and which surpassed the inventiveness of his Inferno. But a reaction
came with tears. Esther rose, threw her arms round the priest's neck,
laid her head on his breast, which she wetted with her weeping,
kissing the coarse stuff that covered that heart of steel as if she
fain would touch it. She seized hold of him; she covered his hands
with kisses; she poured out in a sacred effusion of gratitude her most
coaxing caresses, lavished fond names on him, saying again and again
in the midst of her honeyed words, "Let me have it!" in a thousand
different tones of voice; she wrapped him in tenderness, covered him
with her looks with a swiftness that found him defenceless; at last
she charmed away his wrath.

The priest perceived how well the girl had deserved her nickname; he
understood how difficult it was to resist this bewitching creature; he
suddenly comprehended Lucien's love, and just what must have
fascinated the poet. Such a passion hides among a thousand temptations
a dart-like hook which is most apt to catch the lofty soul of an
artist. These passions, inexplicable to the vulgar, are perfectly
accounted for by the thirst for ideal beauty, which is characteristic
of a creative mind. For are we not, in some degree, akin to the
angels, whose task it is to bring the guilty to a better mind? are we
not creative when we purify such a creature? How delightful it is to