e might have had the grace to say thank you," cried Florine.

"But you have the fifty thousand francs instead," said Vandenesse,
bowing to her.

It is extremely rare for young men, when driven to suicide, to attempt
it a second time if the first fails. When it doesn't cure life, it cures
all desire for voluntary death. Raoul felt no disposition to try it
again when he found himself in a more painful position than that from
which he had just been rescued. He tried to see the countess and explain
to her the nature of his love, which now shone more vividly in his soul
than ever. But the first time they met in society, Madame de Vandenesse
gave him that fixed and contemptuous look which at once and forever puts
an impassable gulf between a man and a woman. In spite of his natural
assurance, Nathan never dared, during the rest of the winter, either to
speak to the countess or even approach her.

But he opened his heart to Blondet; to him he talked of his Laura and
his Beatrice, apropos of Madame de Vandenesse. He even made a paraphrase
of the following beautiful passage from the pen of Theophile Gautier,
one of the most remarkable poets of our day:--

"'Ideala, flower of heaven's own blue, with heart of gold, whose fibrous
roots, softer, a thousandfold, than fairy tresses, strike to our souls
and drink their purest essence; flower most sweet and bitter! thou canst
not be torn away without the heart's blood flowing, without thy bruised
stems sweating with scarlet tears. Ah! cursed flower, why didst thou
grow within my soul?'"

"My dear fellow," said Blondet, "you are raving. I'll grant it was a
pretty flower, but it wasn't a bit ideal, and instead of singing like a
blind man before an empty niche, you had much better wash your hands and
make submission to the powers. You are too much of an artist ever to
be a good politician; you have been fooled by men of not one-half your
value. Think about being fooled again--but elsewhere."

"Marie cannot prevent my loving her," said Nathan; "she shall be my
Beatrice."

"Beatrice, my good Raoul, was a little girl twelve years of age when
Dante last saw her; otherwise, she would not have been Beatrice. To make
a divinity, it won't do to see her one day wrapped in a mantle, and the
next with a low dress, and the third on the boulevard, cheapening toys
for her last baby. When a man has Florine, who is in turn duchess,
bourgeoise, Negress, marquise, colonel, Swiss peasant, virgin of th