hameful desires, floats in the
mud of a swamp?"

MICHELET (_L'Amour_).

He was quite aware of his imprudence, but was unable to withdraw his eyes
from the road, and his thoughts still followed the carriage long after it
had disappeared behind the tall poplars. It seemed to him that it was a
portion of himself which was going away for ever.

What! was the madman then beginning to cast his heart thus on the roads,
and could he feel smitten by this creature whom he had scarcely met?

No, it was not she whom he loved, but she had just made the over-full cup
run over. She or another, it was indifferent to him. His altered feelings
of desire needed at length to drink freely. He was thirsty, what signified
to him the vessel?

Hitherto he had only felt that ordinary confusion which the chaste man
experiences in presence of the woman, for hitherto his sight bad only
paused complacently upon pretty fresh faces, and if his thought wandered
beyond, he drove it back with care to his very inmost being; but now that
he had seen the naked breast of a pretty girl, that he had relished it with
his gaze, embraced it with his desire, that he had yielded to a fatal
forgetfulness, his flesh, so long subdued and humiliated, profited by that
moment of error, and subdued him in its turn.

A kind of frenzy had taken possession of his being in a moment, and in the
sleepless night which he had just passed, he had given himself up to an
absolute orgy in his over-excited imagination.

That wandering girl who had just disappeared, had carried away his modesty.

He felt his heart beating for her; but he felt that his heart was beating
for all alike; girls or women, he wanted them all, he defiled them all with
his thoughts.

And so, after ten years of struggles, the virtue of the Cure of Althausen
dissolved one evening before the naked breast of a rope-dancer, like snow
before the sun.

That day was a Sunday, and, as he did not come downstairs, his servant came
to warn him that the time for Mass was drawing near.

She stood struck with the strange look on his countenance, at the fatigue
displayed on his features, and anxiously enquired of him the cause.

The Cure assured her that she was mistaken, that he bad never felt better;
but at the same time he gave a glance at his mirror.

He was frightened at his face and he remained a long time thoughtful,
contemplating the gloomy fire of his own look.

That sinister countenance seemed to