h a lover's eyes, but with a
poet's. As a painter throws on the shoulders of a lay figure the
imperial purple or the star-spangled robe of a Holy Virgin, so we have
always whole stores of glittering mantles and robes of pure white linen
which we cast over the shoulders of dull, sulky, or spiteful creatures,
and when they have thus assumed the garb in which our ideal loves float
before us in our waking dreams, we let ourselves be taken in by this
disguise, we incarnate our dream in the first corner, and address her
in our language, which she does not understand. However, let this
creature at whose feet we live prostrate, tear away herself the dense
envelope beneath which we have hidden her, and reveal to us her evil
nature and her base instincts; let her place our hands on the spot where
her heart should be, but where nothing beats any longer, and has perhaps
never beaten; let her open her veil, and show us her faded eyes, pale
lips, and haggard features; we replace that veil and exclaim, 'It is not
true! It is not true! I love you, and you, too, love me! This white
bosom holds a heart that has all its youthfulness; I love you, and you
love me! You are beautiful, you are young. At the bottom of all your
vices there is love. I love you, and you love me!' Then in the end,
always quite in the end, when, after having all very well put triple
bandages over our eyes, we see ourselves the dupes of our mistakes, we
drive away the wretch who was our idol of yesterday; we take back from
her the golden veils of poesy, which, on the morrow, we again cast on
the shoulders of some other unknown, who becomes at once an
aureola-surrounded idol. That is what we all are--monstrous egoists--who
love love for love's sake--you understand me? We sip the divine liquor
from the first cup that comes to hand. 'What matter the bottle, so long
as we draw intoxication from it?'"

"What you say is as true as that two and two make four," said Rodolphe
to the poet.

"Yes," replied the latter, "it is true, and as sad as three quarters of
the things that are true. Good night."

Two days later Mademoiselle Mimi learned that Rodolphe had a new
mistress. She only asked one thing--whether he kissed her hands as often
as he used to kiss her own?

"Quite as often," replied Marcel. "In addition, he is kissing the hairs
of her head one after the other, and they are to remain with one another
until he has finished."

"Ah!" replied Mimi, passing her hand thr