"No, in truth," I continued, "that Madeleine, in tears, has the spark of
hope in her bosom; that pale and sickly hand on which she supports her
head, is still sweet with the perfume with which she anointed the feet of
her Lord. You do not understand that in that desert there are thinking
people who pray. This is not Melancholy."
"It is a woman who reads," he replied dryly.
"And a happy woman," I continued, "and a happy book."
Desgenais understood me; he saw that a profound sadness had taken
possession of me. He asked if I had some secret cause of sorrow. I
hesitated, but did not reply.
"My dear Octave," he said, "if you have any trouble, do not hesitate to
confide in me. Speak freely and you will find that I am your friend!"
"I know it," I replied, "I know I have a friend; that is not my trouble."
He urged me to explain.
"But what will it avail," I asked, "since neither of us can help matters?
Do you want the bottom of my heart or merely a word and an excuse?"
"Be frank!" he said.
"Very well," I replied, "you have seen fit to give me advice in the past
and now I ask you to listen to me as I have listened to you. You ask what
is in my heart and I am about to tell you.
"Take the first comer and say to him: 'Here are people who pass their
lives drinking, riding, laughing, gambling, enjoying all kinds of
pleasures; no barrier restrains them, their law is their pleasure, women
are their playthings; they are rich.
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