what Robert says!" exclaimed Nanteuil, sincerely impressed.
And she added thoughtfully: "At any rate, doctor, one thing is certain.
It is that stupidity often prevents one from doing stupid things. I have
noticed that many a time. Whether you take men or women, those are not
the most stupid who act the most stupidly. For example, there are
intelligent women who are stupid about men."

"You mean those who cannot do without them."

"There's no hiding anything from you, my little Socrates."

"Ah," sighed the big Doulce, "what a terrible slavery it is! Every woman
who cannot control her senses is lost to art."

Nanteuil shrugged her pretty shoulders, which still retained something
of the angularity of youth.

"Oh, my great-grandmother! Don't try to kid the youngsters! What an
idea! In your days, did actresses control their--how did you put it?
Fiddlesticks! They didn't control them a scrap!"

Noticing that Nanteuil's temper was rising, the bulky Doulce retired
with dignity and prudence. Once in the passage, she vouchsafed a further
word of advice:

"Remember, my darling, to play Angelique as a 'bud.' The part requires
it."

But Nanteuil, her nerves on edge, took no notice.

"Really," she said, sitting down before her dressing-table, "she makes
me boil, that old Doulce, with her morality. Does she think people have
forgotten her adventures? If so, she is mistaken. Madame Ravaud tells
one of them six days out of seven. Everybody knows that she reduced her
husband, the musician, to such a state of exhaustion that one night he
tumbled into his cornet. As for her lovers, magnificent men, just ask
Madame Michon. Why, in less than two years she made mere shadows of
them, mere puffs of breath. That's the way she controlled them! And
supposing anyone had told her that she was lost to art!"

Dr. Trublet extended his two hands, palms outward, towards Nanteuil, as
though to stop her.

"Do not excite yourself, my child. Madame Doulce is sincere. She used
to love men, now she loves God. One loves what one can, as one can, and
with what one has. She has become chaste and pious at the fitting age.
She is diligent in the practices of her religion: she goes to Mass on
Sundays and feast days, she----"

"Well, she is right to go to Mass," asserted Nanteuil "Michon, light a
candle for me, to heat my rouge. I must do my lips again. Certainly, she
is quite right to go to Mass, but religion does not forbid one to have a
lover."