he man."

"There are no monsters," replied Paul Vence; "and men who pass for
monsters inspire horror. Napoleon was loved by an entire people. He had
the power to win the love of men. The joy of his soldiers was to die for
him."

Countess Martin would have wished Dechartre to give his opinion. But he
excused himself with a sort of fright.

"Do you know," said Schmoll again, "the parable of the three rings,
sublime inspiration of a Portuguese Jew."

Garain, while complimenting Paul Vence on his brilliant paradox,
regretted that wit should be exercised at the expense of morality and
justice.

"One great principle," he said, "is that men should be judged by their
acts."

"And women?" asked Princess Seniavine, brusquely; "do you judge them by
their acts? And how do you know what they do?"

The sound of voices was mingled with the clear tintinabulation of
silverware. A warm air bathed the room. The roses shed their leaves on
the cloth. More ardent thoughts mounted to the brain.

General Lariviere fell into dreams.

"When public clamor has split my ears," he said to his neighbor, "I
shall go to live at Tours. I shall cultivate flowers."

He flattered himself on being a good gardener; his name had been given
to a rose. This pleased him highly.

Schmoll asked again if they knew the parable of the three rings.

The Princess rallied the Deputy.

"Then you do not know, Monsieur Garain, that one does the same things
for very different reasons?"

Montessuy said she was right.

"It is very true, as you say, Madame, that actions prove nothing. This
thought is striking in an episode in the life of Don Juan, which was
known neither to Moliere nor to Mozart, but which is revealed in an
English legend, a knowledge of which I owe to my friend James Russell
Lowell of London. One learns from it that the great seducer lost his
time with three women. One was a bourgeoise: she was in love with her
husband; the other was a nun: she would not consent to violate her vows;
the third, who had for a long time led a life of debauchery, had become
ugly, and was a servant in a den. After what she had done, after what
she had seen, love signified nothing to her. These three women behaved
alike for very different reasons. An action proves nothing. It is the
mass of actions, their weight, their sum total, which makes the value of
the human being."

"Some of our actions," said Madame Martin, "have our look, our face:
they are our daught