I see Catherine with Friar Ange and reflect--The Liking of Nymphs
for Satyrs--An Alarm of Fire--M. d'Asterac in his Laboratory.


When I came out of the cookshop, the night was black. At the corner
of the Rue des Ecrivains I heard a fat and deep voice singing:

"Si ton honneur elle est perdue
La bell', c'est tu l'as bien voulu."

And soon I could see on the other side, whence the voice sounded,
Friar Ange, with wallet dangling on his shoulder, holding Catherine
the lacemaker round the waist, walking in the shadow with a wavering
and triumphal step, spouting the gutter water under his sandals in a
magnificent spirit of mire which seemed to celebrate his drunken
glory, as the basins of Versailles make their fountains play in
honour of the king. I put myself out of the way against the post in
the corner of a house door, so as not to be seen by them, which was
a needless precaution as they were too much occupied with one
another. With her head lying on the monk's shoulder, Catherine
laughed. A moonray trembled on her moist lips and in her eyes, like
the water sparkles in a fountain; and I went my way, with my soul
irritated and my heart oppressed, thinking on the provoking waist of
that fine girl pressed by the arm of a dirty Capuchin.

"Is it possible," I said to myself, "that such a pretty thing could
be in such ugly hands? And if Catherine despises me need she render
her despisal more cruel by the liking she has for that naughty Friar
Ange?"