new, by the temptation of a comfortable,
well-furnished, warm room, that was fragrant with flowers, and where
a little supper was already served as a prologue to the entertainment.
His female pupils would certainly have deserved the first prize in a
love competition.

So men mistrusted that ancient Lovelace as if he had been the plague,
when they had plucked some rare and delicious fruit, and had sketched out
some charming adventure, for he always managed to discover the weak spot,
and to penetrate into the place.

To some, he held out the lure of debauch without any danger attached
to it, the desire of finishing their amorous education, of reveling in
perverted enjoyment, and to others he held out the irresistible argument
that seduced Danae, that of gold.

Others, again, were attracted by his cocked hat and feathers, and by the
conceited hope of seeing him at their knees, of throwing their arms round
him as if he had been an ordinary lover, although he was a general who
rode so imposingly, who was covered with decorations, and to whom all the
regiments presented arms simultaneously, the chief whose orders could not
be commented on or disputed, and who had such a martial
and haughty look.

His pay, allowances and his private income of fifteen thousand francs,[2]
all went in this way, like water that runs out drop by drop, from a
cracked bottle.

[Footnote 2: L600.]

He was continually on the alert, and looked out for intrigues with the
acuteness of a policeman, followed women about, had all the impudence and
all the cleverness of the fast man who has made love for forty years,
without ever meaning anything serious, who knows all its lies, tricks and
illusions, and who can still do a march without halting on the road, or
requiring too much music to put him in proper trim. And in spite of his
age and gray hairs, he could have given a sub-lieutenant points, and was
very often loved for himself, which is the dream of men who have passed
forty, and do not intend to give up the game just yet.

And there were not a dozen in the town who could, without lying, have
declared to a jealous husband or a suspicious lover, that they had not,
at any rate, once staid late in the little house in the Eglisottes
quarter, who could have denied that they had not returned more
thoughtful. Not a dozen, certainly, and, perhaps, not six!

Among that dozen or six, however, was Jacques de Montboron's mistress.
She was a little marvel,