Newman kept his promise, or his menace, of going often to the Rue de l’Universite, and during the next six weeks he saw Madame de Cintre more times than he could have numbered.  He flattered himself that he was not in love, but his biographer may be supposed to know better.  He claimed, at least, none of the exemptions and emoluments of the romantic passion.  Love, he believed, made a fool of a man, and his present emotion was not folly but wisdom; wisdom sound, serene, well-directed.  What he felt was an intense, all-consuming tenderness, which had for its object an extraordinarily graceful and delicate, and at the same time impressive, woman who lived in a large gray house on the left bank of the Seine.  This tenderness turned very often into a positive heart-ache; a sign in which, certainly, Newman ought to have read the appellation which science has conferred upon his sentiment.  When the heart has a heavy weight upon it, it hardly matters whether the weight be of gold or of lead; when, at any rate, happiness passes into that place in which it becomes identical with pain, a man may admit that the reign of wisdom is temporarily suspended.  Newman wished Madame de Cintre so well that nothing he could think of doing for her in the future rose to the high standard which his present mood had set itself.  She seemed to him so felicitous a product of nature and circumstance that his invention, musing on future combinations, was constantly catching its breath with the fear of stumbling into some brutal compression or mutilation of her beautiful personal harmony.  This is what I mean by Newman’s tenderness:  Madame de Cintre pleased him so, exactly as she was, that his desire to interpose between her and the troubles of life had the quality of a young mother’s eagerness to protect the sleep of her first-born child.  Newman was simply charmed, and he handled his charm as if it were a music-box which would stop if one shook it.  There can be no better proof of the hankering epicure that is hidden in every man’s temperament, waiting for a signal from some divine confederate that he may safely peep out.  Newman at last was enjoying, purely, freely, deeply.  Certain of Madame de Cintre’s personal qualities—­the luminous sweetness of her eyes, the delicate mobility of her face, the deep liquidity of her voice—­filled all his consciousness.  A rose-crowned Greek of old, gazing at a marble goddess with his whole bright intellect resting satisfied in the act, could not have been a more complete embodiment of the wisdom that loses itself in the enjoyment of quiet harmonies.

He made no violent love to her—­no sentimental speeches.  He never trespassed on what she had made him understand was for the present forbidden ground.  But he had, nevertheless, a comfortable sense that she knew better from day to day how much he admired her.  Though in general he was no great talker, he talked much, and he succeeded perfectly in making her say many things.  He was not afraid