to have love
for her, just for the pleasure of it, when he had not--that is worse
than pretending to have money! And in any case, it is a _wicked_ law,
monsieur, that would grant a divorce when they are married, and--look
now--left to himself he will forgive her, but he is catching at what you
say. You have come here to tempt him! You dare not go on, monsieur!'

'Dare not, mademoiselle?' said the notary, with a superior air.

'No, monsieur. Think of what the good God and the holy saints would say!
This poor girl has brought much punishment on herself, but--ah,
monsieur, think of the verdict of Heaven!'

'Mademoiselle,' said the notary haughtily, 'I was proposing nothing but
justice; but it is no affair of mine.' And with that he went out
brusquely--very brusquely for a gentleman of such polite manners.

'I am astonished at you, Marie,' said Madame Verine. This was true, but
it was meant as a reproach.

'She is beside herself with compassion,' said the Russian lady; 'but
that is just what men of the world despise most.'

Then Marie went to her room weeping, and the two ladies talked to
Celeste till her soft face had hard lines about the mouth and her eyes
were defiant. Young Fernand slipped out and went again to the
market-place.

'I come to ask your aid, monsieur the notary.'

'I do not advise you.'

'But, monsieur, to whom else can I apply?'

'I am too busy,' said the notary.

Fernand and Celeste walked back to their village, hand in hand, both
downcast, both peevish, but still together.

Now the notary was not what might be called a bad man himself, but he
believed that the world was very bad. He had seen much to confirm this
belief, and had not looked in the right place to find any facts that
would contradict it. This belief had made him hard and sometimes even
dishonest in his dealings with men; for what is the use of being good in
a world that can neither comprehend goodness nor admire it? On the
whole, the notary was much better satisfied with himself than with human
nature around him, although, if he had only known it, he himself had
grown to be the reflex--the image as in a mirror--of what he thought
other men were; it is always so. There was just this much truth in him
at the bottom of his scorn and grumbling--he flattered himself that if
he could see undoubted virtue he could admire it; and there was in him
that possibility of grace.

After he left Madame Verine's door he thought with irritatio