and with the cleverness all women display to obtain what pleases them, she often contrived that the mistress of the house should place me beside her at dinner.  On such occasions she spoke in low tones to my ear.  “If I were loved like Madame de Mortsauf,” she said once, “I should sacrifice all.”  She did submit herself with a laugh in many humble ways; she promised me a discretion equal to any test, and even asked that I would merely suffer her to love me.  “Your friend always, your mistress when you will,” she said.  At last, after an evening when she had made herself so beautiful that she was certain to have excited my desires, she came to me.  The scandal resounded through England, where the aristocracy was horrified like heaven itself at the fall of its highest angel.  Lady Dudley abandoned her place in the British empyrean, gave up her wealth, and endeavored to eclipse by her sacrifices her whose virtue had been the cause of this great disaster.  She took delight, like the devil on the pinnacle of the temple, in showing me all the riches of her passionate kingdom.

Read me, I pray you, with indulgence.  The matter concerns one of the most interesting problems of human life,—­a crisis to which most men are subjected, and which I desire to explain, if only to place a warning light upon the reef.  This beautiful woman, so slender, so fragile, this milk-white creature, so yielding, so submissive, so gentle, her brow so endearing, the hair that crowns it so fair and fine, this tender woman, whose brilliancy is phosphorescent and fugitive, has, in truth, an iron nature.  No horse, no matter how fiery he may be, can conquer her vigorous wrist, or strive against that hand so soft in appearance, but never tired.  She has the foot of a doe, a thin, muscular little foot, indescribably graceful in outline.  She is so strong that she fears no struggle; men cannot follow her on horseback; she would win a steeple-chase against a centaur; she can bring down a stag without stopping her horse.  Her body never perspires; it inhales the fire of the atmosphere, and lives in water under pain of not living at all.  Her love is African; her desires are like the whirlwinds of the desert—­the desert, whose torrid expanse is in her eyes, the azure, love-laden desert, with its changeless skies, its cool and starry nights.  What a contrast to Clochegourde! the east and the west! the one drawing into her every drop of moisture for her own nourishment, the other exuding her soul, wrapping her dear ones in her luminous atmosphere; the one quick and slender; the other slow and massive.

Have you ever reflected on the actual meaning of the manners and customs and morals of England?  Is it not the deification of matter? a well-defined, carefully considered Epicureanism, judiciously applied?  No matter what may be said against the statement, England is materialist,—­possibly she does not know it herself.  She lays claim to religion and morality, from which, however, divine spirituality, the catholic