“I?” said Lucan, “what an idea!”

“It must have been you.  You,” she went on again, speaking to her flowers, “you look sickly, good-night!  Yes, it must have been you.  One might think you quite meek, to look at you, whereas, on the contrary, you are very harsh, very tyrannical.”

“Ferocious!” said Lucan.

“At any rate, I have no fault to find with you for that.  You were right; poor Pierre is too weak with me.  I like a man to be a man.  And yet he is very brave, is he not?”

“Extremely so,” said Lucan; “he is capable of the most energetic actions.”

“He looks like it, and yet with me—­he is an angel.”

“It is because he loves you.”

“Quite probable!—­some of those flowers are so curious.  Look at this one; it looks like a little lady!”

“I hope that you love him too, my good Pierre?”

“Quite probable, too!”

After a pause, she shook her head: 

“And why should I love him?”

“What a question!” said Lucan.  “Why, because he is perfectly worthy of being loved; because he has every quality; intelligence, heart, and even beauty—­finally, because you have married him.”

“Monsieur de Lucan, will you allow me to tell you something confidentially?”

“I beg you to do so.”

“That trip to Italy has been very injurious to me.”

“In what way?”

“Before my marriage, I did not think myself positively ugly, but I fancied myself at least quite plain.”

“Yes!  Well?”

“Well! while traveling about Italy, among all those souvenirs and those marbles, so much admired, I made strange reflections.  I said to myself that, after all, these princesses and goddesses of the ancient world, who drove shepherds and kings mad, for whose sake wars broke out and sacrileges were committed, were persons pretty much after my own style.  Then occurred to me the fatal idea of my own beauty!  I felt that I disposed of an exceptional power; that I was a sacred object that could not be given away for a vulgar trifle, and which could only be the reward—­how can I say?—­of a great deed or of a crime!”

Lucan remained for a moment astonished at the audacious naivete of that language.  He thought best, however, to laugh at it.

“But, my dear Julia,” he said, “take care; you mistake the age.  We are no longer in the days when nations went to war for the sake of a woman’s pretty eyes.  However, speak about it to Pierre; he has everything required to furnish the great action you want.  As to the crime, I think you had better give it up.”

“Do you think so?” said Julia.  “What a pity!” she added, bursting out into a hearty laugh.  “You see, I tell you all the nonsense that comes in my head.  That’s amiable enough, I hope, is it not?”

“It is certainly extremely amiable,” said Lucan.  “Keep on.”

“With such precious encouragement, sir!” she said, rising and finishing her sentence with a courtesy; “but for the present, let us go to breakfast.  I recommend my bouquet to your attention.  Hold the head down.  Walk ahead, sir, and by the shortest road, if you please, for I have an appetite that is bringing tears to my eyes.”