The Red Lily

ents of the day, she fell into a sad reverie. It seemed to her that she floated in a mist. It was a peaceful and almost sweet suffering. She saw vaguely through the clouds the little room of the

feverish. A rattle of silverware on the tab

speech on the question of the reserve funds. It's extraordinary how hi

ot refrain

avaut never had any ideas except at his elbows. Does anybody take him seriously in the political world? You may be sure that he never ga

to spend a month with her at Fies

contented, he asked her

she an

adame M

companion, and it was appropriate for her to visit Italy,

ted her? When

t we

t opposition would only make her capriciousness firmer,

There is an interesting country. General Annenkoff will place at our disposal carriages, trains, and everything else

not worldly. She replied, negligently, that it might be a pleasant trip. Then he

add

s - Princess Seniavine, General La

dry laugh, that they had

ttentive to

ing. You will in

alone. He felt that he was himself only when his wife was there. And then, he had decided to give two or three political dinners d

aid of all our friends. You have not f

my

is leading the country back to moderate opinions. The country is tired of exaggerations. It rejects the men compromised by radical politi

ly she listened

bear rug, and to whom her lover gave kisses while she twisted her hair in front of a glass, was not herself, was not even a woman that she knew well, or that she desired

nvite some of the ancient radicals to meet the people of our circle. It will be well to find some pretty women. We

since I am to

him with c

the drawing-room, where Paul Vence wa

ded her h

is cold and bleak. This weather tires and saddens me. I

e then lifted hi

her she had been

throw myself into things. From Florence I shall take walks in

e peace of the Sabbath-day in the gra

rettily to me of Venice, of the atmo

has said: 'The sky of Florence is light and subtle, and feeds the beautiful ideas

d see me

sig

ks, and his daily

d that one was too happy to read the articles and the fine books w

hat becomes of the idea, the beautiful idea, which these miserable hieroglyphics hide? What does the reader make of my writing? A series of false sense, of counter sense, and of nonsense. To read, to hear, is to translate. There are beautiful translations, perhaps. There are no faithful translations. Why should I c

ng," said M. M

m this. He feels that he is alone when he is thinking, alone when he is writing. Whatever one may do, one is always

igns -" said

so are a form of hieroglyphics? Give me news of

was very busy in forming the

street where she lives, behind the public hospital - a street always damp, the houses on which are totteri

ached without the permission of spiritual powers. He made of it a belt, and realized that he had been chosen to lead back into its primitive purity the Third Order of Saint Francis. He renounced the beauty of women, the delights of poetry, the brightness of glory, and studied the life and the doctrine of Saint Francis. However, he has sold to his editor a book entitled 'Les Blandices', which contains, he says, the de

s story was really true. Vence repl

poet, and that the adventures which he related of him

ublishing Les Blandices, and desired to v

him to Italy with me. Find him, Monsieur Ven

o remain longer. He had to finish a report which

her so much as Choulette. Paul Vence said

of mind. If he shocks one by many of his acts, the reason is that he is weaker, less supported, or perhaps less closely observed. And then there are unworthy saints, just a

terrup

ongratulate you on your friend De

ad

is a littl

e had told her she would

he has been my frien

ew his

only son of Phil

archi

rything which the lapse of centuries had added to a church, an abbey, or a castle should be respected. To abolish anachronisms and restore a building to its primitive unity, seemed to him to be a scientific barbarity as culpable as that of ignorance. He said: 'It is a crime to efface the successive imprints made in stone by the hands of our ancestors. New stones cut in old style are false witnesses.' He wished to limit the task

ent, so easy to understand,

e has a tormented and t

e like

do yo

ith any idea of

lfish men really love women. After the death of his mother, he

t very pretty, but graceful with a certain s

s, her complexion burned by rouge, her eyes tender, pretty because of her intelligence and her activity. She complained to me that he was inattentive, cross, and unreasonable. She loved him and deceived him only to obtain roles. And when she deceived him, it was done on the spur of the moment. Afte

e regre

nd passionate, desirous to surrender itself, prompt in disengaging itself, lik

he changed

ovel, Monsi

re, who never have felt on their lips the warm taste of life. The journals and the public approve the act of justice which has just been ac

nd said g

lled h

ow that I was serious.

ale and hollow face. He had an air of gravity. Behind him, by the open door of his workroom, appeared under the lamp a mass of docu

of harm. You intend to leave your home without any reason, without even a pretext. And yo

l with Madame Marmet, in which th

ybody, yet you do not even know whet

othing keeps her in Paris except her dog. She

ther know of

ority of Montessuy. He knew that his wife f

s intrigue. You are wrong, I must say, not to take account of what people think. I am mistaken if your father does not think it singular that you should go away with so much frivolity, and the absence will be the more remarked, my dear, since circumstances have made me eminent in the course of this legislature. My m

en them. That night in her bed she opened a book, as she always did before going to sleep. It

n the road to Damascus. A woman oftenest yields to the passion of love only when age or solitude does not frighten her. Passion is an arid and burning desert. Passion is profane asceticism, as harsh as religious asceticism. Great woman lovers are as rare as great penitent women. Those who know life well know tha

more severely than mere gallantry or looseness of manners. In one sense the world is right. A woman in love betrays her nature and fails in her function, which is to be admired by all men, like a work of art. A woman is a work of

of love, nor a beautiful and terrible vocation against which the predestined one resisted in vain; she knew very well that love was only a brief intoxication from which one recovered a little sad