of them. But he was no angel; he could find plenty of attractions in the
grisettes of Souvigny, and when they would allow him to tell them that
they were charming, he was quite ready to do so, but it had never entered
his head to regard as love those passing fancies, which only caused the
slightest and most superficial disturbance in his heart.

Paul de Lavardens had marvellous powers of enthusiasm and idealization.
His heart sheltered always two or three grandes passions, which lived
there in perfect harmony. Paul had been so clever as to discover, in
this little town of 15,000 souls, numbers of pretty girls, all made to be
adored. He always believed himself the discoverer of America, when, in
fact, he had done nothing but follow in the track of other navigators.

The world-Jean had scarcely encountered it. He had allowed himself to be
dragged by Paul, a dozen times, perhaps, to soirees or balls at the great
houses of the neighborhood. He had invariably returned thoroughly bored,
and had concluded that these pleasures were not made for him. His tastes
were simple, serious. He loved solitude, work, long walks, open space,
horses, and books. He was rather savage--a son of the soil. He loved
his village, and all the old friends of his childhood. A quadrille in a
drawing-room caused him unspeakable terror; but every year, at the
festival of the patron saint of Longueval, he danced gayly with the young
girls and farmers' daughters of the neighborhood.

If he had seen Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival at home in Paris, in all
the splendor of their luxury, in all the perfection of their costly
surroundings, he would have looked at them from afar, with curiosity,
as exquisite works of art. Then he would have returned home, and would
have slept, as usual, the most peaceful slumber in the world.