“Certainly not,” I said, laughingly; “that isn’t it; that isn’t it at all.  In the first place, the word scorn must be suppressed, having nothing to do here; then, I don’t much believe in your ignorance, and not at all in your lack of wit.  Finally, I see nothing above virtue, when I see it at all, which is not often.  Furthermore, madam, I feel confused at the importance you attach to my opinion.  The secret of my likes and dislikes is quite simple; I have, as I was telling you, the most religious respect for virtue, but all mine is limited to a deep-seated sentiment of a few essential duties which I practice as best I can; I could not therefore ask any more of others.  As to the intellect, I confess that I value it greatly, and life seems too serious a matter to me to be treated on the footing of a perpetual ball, from the cradle to the grave.  Moreover, the productions of the mind, works of art in particular, are the object of my most passionate preoccupations, and it is natural that I should like being able to speak of what interests me.  That’s all.”

“Is it absolutely necessary to be forever talking of the ecstasies of the soul, of cemeteries, and the Venus of Milo, in order to obtain in your opinion the rank of a serious woman and a woman of taste?  But, after all, you are right; I never think; if I did for one single minute, it seems to me that I should go mad, that my head would split.  And what were you thinking about yourself, in that old convent cell?”

“I thought a great deal about you,” I replied gayly, “on the evening of that day when you hunted me down so unmercifully, and I abused you most heartily.”

“I can understand that.”  She began laughing, looking all around her, and added:  “What a lovely valley! what a delightful evening!  And now, are you still disposed to abuse me?”

“Now, I wish from the bottom of my soul I were able to do something for your happiness.”

“And I for yours,” she said, quietly.

I bowed for all answer, and a brief pause followed: 

“If I were a man,” suddenly said Madame de Palme, “I believe I would like to be a hermit.”

“Oh! what a pity!”

“That idea does not surprise you?”

“No, madam.”

“Nothing from me would surprise you, I suppose.  You believe me capable of anything—­of anything, perhaps even of being fond of you?”

“Why not?  Greater wonders have been seen!  Am I not fond of you myself at the present moment?  That’s a fine example to follow!”

“You must give me time to think about it?”

“Not long!”

“As long as it may be necessary.  We are friends in the meantime?”

“If we are friends, there is nothing further to expect,” I said, holding out my hand frankly to the Little Countess.  I felt that she was pressing it lightly, and the conversation ended there.  We had reached the top of the hills; it was now quite dark, and we galloped all the rest of the way to the chateau.