her lovers more than a
plaything. She understood this; and, as she was naturally proud, the
idea enraged her. She dreamed of a man who would be devoted enough to
make a real sacrifice for her, a lover who would descend to her level,
instead of attempting to raise her to his. She despaired of ever meeting
such a one. Noel's extravagance left her as cold as ice. She believed he
was very rich, and singularly, in spite of her greediness, she did
not care much for money. Noel would have won her easier by a brutal
frankness that would have shown her clearly his situation. He lost her
love by the delicacy of his dissimulation, that left her ignorant of the
sacrifices he was making for her.

Noel adored Juliette. Until the fatal day he saw her, he had lived like
a sage. This, his first passion, burned him up; and, from the disaster,
he saved only appearances.

The four walls remained standing, but the interior of the edifice was
destroyed. Even heroes have their vulnerable parts, Achilles died from
a wound in the heel. The most artfully constructed armour has a flaw
somewhere. Noel was assailable by means of Juliette, and through her
was at the mercy of everything and every one. In four years, this
model young man, this advocate of immaculate reputation, this austere
moralist, had squandered not only his own fortune on her, but Madame
Gerdy's also. He loved her madly, without reflection, without measure,
with his eyes shut. At her side, he forgot all prudence, and thought out
loud. In her boudoir, he dropped his mask of habitual dissimulation, and
his vices displayed themselves, at ease, as his limbs in a bath. He felt
himself so powerless against her, that he never essayed to struggle. She
possessed him. Once or twice he attempted to firmly oppose her ruinous
caprices; but she had made him pliable as the osier. Under the dark
glances of this girl, his strongest resolutions melted more quickly than
snow beneath an April sun. She tortured him; but she had also the power
to make him forget all by a smile, a tear, or a kiss. Away from the
enchantress, reason returned at intervals, and, in his lucid moments,
he said to himself, "She does not love me. She is amusing herself at
my expense!" But the belief in her love had taken such deep root in his
heart that he could not pluck it forth. He made himself a monster of
jealousy, and then argued with himself respecting her fidelity. On
several occasions he had strong reasons to doubt he