Garneret only buried his face between his hands.  It was above his comprehension.

“But come,” he said, “the woman is no differently constituted from other women!”

Obvious as it was, this consideration filled Jean Servien with amazement.  It shocked him so much that, rather than admit its truth, he racked his brains in desperation to find arguments to controvert the blasphemy.

Garneret gave his views on women.  He had a judicial mind, had Garneret, and could account for everything in the relations of the sexes; but he could not tell Jean why one face glimpsed among a thousand gives joy and grief more than life itself seemed able to contain.  Still, he tried to explain the problem, for he was of an eminently ratiocinative temper.

“The thing is quite simple,” he declared.  “There are a dozen violins for sale at a dealer’s.  I pass that way, common scraper of catgut that I am, I tune them and try them, and play over on each of them in turn, with false notes galore, some catchy tune—­Au clair de la lune or J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatiere—­stuff fit to kill the old cow.  Then Paganini comes along; with one sweep of the bow he explores the deepest depths of the vibrating instruments.  The first is flat, the second sharp, the third almost dumb, the fourth is hoarse, five others have neither power nor truth of tone; but lo! the twelfth gives forth under the master’s hand a mighty music of sweet, deep-voiced harmonies.  It is a Stradivarius; Paganini knows it, takes it home with him, guards it as the apple of his eye; from an instrument that for me would never have been more than a resonant wooden box he draws chords that make men weep, and love, and fall into a very ecstasy; he directs in his will that they bury this violin with him in his coffin.  Well, Paganini is the lover, the instrument with its strings and tuning-pegs is the woman.  The instrument must be beautifully made and come from the workshop of a right skilful maker; more than that, it must fall into the hands of an accomplished player.  But, my poor lad, granting your actress is a divine instrument of amorous music, I don’t believe you capable of drawing from it one single note of passion’s fugue....  Just consider.  I don’t spend my nights supping with ladies of the theatre; but we all know what an actress is.  It is an animal generally agreeable to see and hear, always badly brought up, spoilt first by poverty and afterwards by luxury.  Very busy into the bargain, which makes her as unromantic as anybody can well be.  Something like a concierge turned princess, and combining the petty spite of the porter’s lodge with the caprices of the boudoir and the fagged nerves of the student.