“The obligation imposed on a girl that she should bring her virginity to her husband comes from the times when girls were married immediately they were of a marriageable age.  It is ridiculous that a girl who marries at twenty-five or thirty should be subject to that obligation.  You will, perhaps, say that it is a present with which her husband, if she gets one at last, will be gratified; but every moment we see men wooing married women and showing themselves perfectly satisfied to take them as they find them.

“Still, even in our own day, the duty of girls is determined in religious morality by the old belief that God, the most powerful of warriors, is polygamous, that he has reserved all maidens for himself, and that men can only take those whom he has left.  This belief, although traces of it exist in several metaphors of mysticism, is abandoned to-day, by most civilised peoples.  However, it still dominates the education of girls not only among our believers, but even among our free-thinkers, who, as a rule, think freely for the reason that they do not think at all.

“Discretion means ability to separate and discern.  We say that a girl is discreet when she knows nothing at all.  We cultivate her ignorance.  In spite of all our care the most discreet know something, for we cannot conceal from them their own nature and their own sensations.  But they know badly, they know in a wrong way.  That is all we obtain by our careful education. . . .”

“Sir,” suddenly said Joseph Boutourle, the High Treasurer of Alca, “believe me, there are innocent girls, perfectly innocent girls, and it is a great pity.  I have known three.  They married, and the result was tragical.”

“I have noticed,” Professor Haddock went on, “that Europeans in general and Penguins in particular occupy themselves, after sport and motoring, with nothing so much as with love.  It is giving a great deal of importance to a matter that has very little weight.”

“Then, Professor,” exclaimed Madame Cremeur in a choking voice, “when a woman has completely surrendered herself to you, you think it is a matter of no importance?”

“No, Madame; it can have its importance,” answered Professor Haddock, “but it is necessary to examine if when she surrenders herself to us she offers us a delicious fruit-garden or a plot of thistles and dandelions.  And then, do we not misuse words?  In love, a woman lends herself rather than gives herself.  Look at the pretty Madame Pensee. . . .”

“She is my mother,” said a tall, fair young man.

“Sir, I have the greatest respect for her,” replied Professor Haddock; “do not be afraid that I intend to say anything in the least offensive about her.  But allow me to tell you that, as a rule, the opinions of sons about their mothers are not to be relied on.  They do not bear enough in mind that a mother is a mother only because she loved, and that she can still love.  That, however, is the case, and it would be deplorable were it otherwise.  I have noticed, on the contrary, that daughters do not deceive themselves about their mothers’ faculty for loving or about the use they make of it; they are rivals; they have their eyes upon them.”