himself in order to have a divinity to adore, so as not to be alone in
his impiety, and to see, above his head when he arises, something that
shall not be empty and vacant space. This man seeks a woman, takes all
that he has, talent passion, youth, enthusiasm, all the wealth of his
heart, and throws them at her feet like the mantle that Raleigh spread
out before Elizabeth, and he says to this woman: 'Walk, O my queen;
trample under your blessed feet the heart of your adoring slave!' This
man is a fool, is he not? For when the queen has passed, what remains
upon the mantle? Mud!"

Gerfaut accompanied these words with such a withering glance that the one
for whom they were intended felt her blood freeze in her veins, and
withdrew the hand her husband had kept till then in his; she soon arose
and seated herself at the other side of the table, under the pretext of
getting nearer the lamp to work, but in reality in order to withdraw from
Christian's vicinity. Clemence had expected her lover's anger, but not
his scorn; she had not strength to endure this torture, and the conjugal
love which had, not without difficulty, inflamed her heart for the last
few days, fell to ashes at the first breath of Octave's indignation.

Mademoiselle de Corandeuil greeted the Vicomte's words indulgently; for,
from consummate pride, she separated herself from other women.

"So then," said she, "you pretend that if to-day love is painted under
false and vulgar colors, the fault is the model's, not the artist's."

"You express my thought much better than I could have done it myself,"
said Gerfaut, in an ironical tone; "where are the angels whose portraits
are called for?"