“Ah, if there were some way of getting acquainted with Canon Docre, of insinuating oneself into his confidence, perhaps one would attain clear insight into these questions.  I learned long ago that there are no people interesting to know except saints, scoundrels, and cranks.  They are the only persons whose conversation amounts to anything.  Persons of good sense are necessarily dull, because they revolve over and over again the tedious topics of everyday life.  They are the crowd, more or less intelligent, but they are the crowd, and they give me a pain.  Yes, but who will put me in touch with this monstrous priest?” and, as he poked the fire, Durtal said to himself, “Chantelouve, if he would, but he won’t.  There remains his wife, who used to be well acquainted with Docre.  I must interrogate her and find out whether she still corresponds with him and sees him.”

The entrance of Mme. Chantelouve into his reflections saddened him.  He took out his watch and murmured, “What a bore.  She will come again, and again I shall have to—­if only there were any possibility of convincing her of the futility of the carnal somersaults!  In any case, she can’t be very well pleased, because, to her frantic letter soliciting a meeting, I responded three days later by a brief, dry note, inviting her to come here this evening.  It certainly was lacking in lyricism, too much so, perhaps.”

He rose and went into his bedroom to make sure that the fire was burning brightly, then he returned and sat down, without even arranging his room as he had the other times.  Now that he no longer cared for this woman, gallantry and self-consciousness had fled.  He awaited her without impatience, his slippers on his feet.

“To tell the truth, I have had nothing pleasant from Hyacinthe except that kiss we exchanged when her husband was only a few feet away.  I certainly shall not again find her lips a-flame and fragrant.  Here her kiss is insipid.”

Mme. Chantelouve rang earlier than usual.

“Well,” she said, sitting down.  “You wrote me a nice letter.”

“How’s that?”

“Confess frankly that you are through with me.”

He denied this, but she shook her head.

“Well,” he said, “what have you to reproach me with?  Having written you only a short note?  But there was someone here, I was busy and I didn’t have time to assemble pretty speeches.  Not having set a date sooner?  I told you our relation necessitates precautions, and we can’t see each other very often.  I think I gave you clearly to understand my motives—­”

“I am so stupid that I probably did not understand them.  You spoke to me of ‘family reasons,’ I believe.”

“Yes.”

“Rather vague.”

“Well, I couldn’t go into detail and tell you that—­”

He stopped, asking himself whether the time had come to break decisively with her, but he remembered that he wanted her aid in getting information about Docre.