"He would not stay to supper," said Madame de Nucingen.

"For six months, possessed by my passion," de Marsay went on, "but
incapable of suspecting that it had overmastered me, I had abandoned
myself to that rapturous idolatry which is at once the triumph and the
frail joy of the young. I treasured _her_ old gloves; I drank an
infusion of the flowers _she_ had worn; I got out of bed at night to
go and gaze at _her_ window. All my blood rushed to my heart when I
inhaled the perfume she used. I was miles away from knowing that woman
is a stove with a marble casing."

"Oh! spare us your terrible verdicts," cried Madame de Montcornet with
a smile.

"I believe I should have crushed with my scorn the philosopher who
first uttered this terrible but profoundly true thought," said de
Marsay. "You are all far too keen-sighted for me to say any more on
that point. These few words will remind you of your own follies.

"A great lady if ever there was one, a widow without children--oh! all
was perfect--my idol would shut herself up to mark my linen with her
hair; in short, she responded to my madness by her own. And how can we
fail to believe in passion when it has the guarantee of madness?

"We each devoted all our minds to concealing a love so perfect and so
beautiful from the eyes of the world; and we succeeded. And what charm
we found in our escapades! Of her I will say nothing. She was
perfection then, and to this day is considered one of the most
beautiful women in Paris; but at that time a man would have endured
death to win one of her glances. She had been left with an amount of