exclusively given up to the exercise of thought, to the talents of the mind, to the works, good or evil, of the intellect.  In the light of human truth, and according to common estimation, it is doubtful whether the difference in this particular is wholly in our favor; but in a more elevated order, in the moral order, and, so to speak, in the presence of God, does that superiority hold good?  Are we merely yielding, as they do, to an inclination that leads us rather more to one side than to another, or are we obeying an imperative duty?  What is in the eyes of God the merit of intellectual life?  It seems to me sometimes that we possess for thought a species of pagan worship to which He attaches no value, and which perhaps even offends Him.  More frequently, however, I think that He wishes us to make use of thought, were it even to be turned against Him, and that He accepts as a homage all the quiverings of that noble instrument of joy and torture which He has placed within us.

Is not sadness, in periods of doubt and anxiety, a species of religion?  I trust so.  We are, you and I, somewhat like those poor dreaming sphinxes who have been asking in vain for so many centuries, from the solitudes of the desert, the solution of the eternal riddle.  Would it be a greater and more guilty folly than the happy carelessness of the Little Countess?  We shall see.  In the meantime, retain, for my sake, that ground-work of melancholy upon which you weave your own gentle mirth; for, thank God! you are not a pedant; you can live, you can laugh, and even laugh aloud; but thy soul is sad unto death, and that is only why I love unto death thy fraternal soul.

CHAPTER VI.

THE MARQUISE INTERCEDES.

1st October.

Paul, there is something going on here that does not please me.  I would like to have your advice; send it as soon as possible.

On Thursday morning, after finishing my letter, I went down to give it to the messenger, who leaves quite early; then, as it only wanted a few minutes of the breakfast-hour, I walked into the drawing-room, which was still empty.  I was quietly looking over a review by the fireside, when the door was suddenly flung open; I heard the crushing and rustling of a silk dress too broad to get easily through an aperture three feet wide, and I saw the Little Countess appear:  she had spent the night at the chateau.

If you remember the unfortunate conversation in which I had become entangled, the previous evening, and which Madame de Palme had overheard from beginning to end, you will readily understand that this lady was the last person in the world with whom it might prove pleasant to find myself alone that morning.