original stain. Allow me also to say, sir, that jealousy is a Gothic
sentiment, a sad reminder of barbaric customs, which has no business
to survive in a delicate, well-born soul."

"Monsieur l'Abbe," inquired M. d'Anquetil, "on what grounds do you
presume me to be jealous? I am not! But I cannot stand a woman
mocking me."

"We are playthings of the winds," said my tutor, and sighed.
"Everything laughs at us, the sky, the stars, rain and shadow,
zephyr and light and woman. Let Catherine sup with us. She is pretty
and will enliven our table. Whatever she may have done, that kiss
and the rest, do not render her the less pleasant to look at. The
infidelities of women do not spoil their beauty. Nature, pleased to
adorn them, is indifferent to their faults; follow her, and forgive
Catherine."

I seconded my tutor's entreaties, and M. d'Anquetil consented to
free the prisoner. He went to the door of the room from whence the
cries came, unlocked it, and called Catherine, whose only reply was
to redouble her wailing.

"Gentlemen," her lover said to us, "there she is lying flat on her
belly, her head plunged in the pillows, and at every sob raising her
rump ridiculously. Look at that. It is for such we take so much
trouble and commit so many absurdities! Catherine, come to supper."

But Catherine did not move, and continued to cry. He pulled her by
the arm, by the waist. She resisted. He became more pressing, and
said caressingly: