There had only been between this young man and himself the banal relations of two persons accustomed to frequent the same house, whom no tie unites, who seem ever separated by a certain antipathy of nature, of manner of life.  What explanation could there be called for between them?  He followed him with much perplexed curiosity.

The aspect of the little studio, chilly under its top-light, the empty fireplace, the wind blowing as though they were out of doors and making the candle flicker, the solitary light on the scene of the night’s labour of a poor and lonely man, reflected on sheets of paper scribbled over and scattered about, in short, this atmosphere of habitations wherein the soul of the inhabitants lives on its own aspirations, caused de Gery to understand the visionary air of Andre Maranne, his long hair thrown back and streaming loose, that somewhat excessive appearance, very excusable when it is paid for by a life of sufferings and privations, and his sympathy immediately went out to this courageous fellow whose intrepidity of spirit he guessed at a glance.  But the other was too deeply moved by emotion to notice the progress of these reflections.  As soon as the door was closed upon them, he said, with the accent of a stage hero addressing the perfidious seducer, “M. de Gery, I am not yet a Cassandra.”

And seeing the stupefaction of de Gery: 

“Yes, yes,” he went on, “we understand each other.  I have known perfectly well what it is that draws you to M. Joyeuse’s house, and the eager welcome with which you are received there has not escaped my notice either.  You are rich, you are of noble birth, there can be no hesitation between you and the poor poet who follows a ridiculous trade in order to give himself full time to reach a success which perhaps will never come.  But I shall not allow my happiness to be stolen from me.  We must fight, monsieur, we must fight,” he repeated, excited by the peaceful calm of his rival.  “For long I have loved Mlle. Joyeuse.  That love is the end, the joy, and the strength of an existence which is very hard, in many respects painful.  I have only it in the world, and I would rather die than give it up.”

Strangeness of the human soul!  Paul did not love the charming Aline.  His whole heart belonged to the other.  He thought of her simply as a friend, the most adorable of friends.  But the idea that Maranne was interested in her, that she no doubt returned this regard, gave him the jealous shiver of an annoyance, and it was with some considerable sharpness that he inquired whether Mlle. Joyeuse was aware of this sentiment of Andre’s and had in any way authorized him thus to proclaim his rights.

“Yes, monsieur, Mlle. Elise knows that I love her, and before your frequent visits—­”

“Elise?  It is of Elise you are speaking?”

“And of whom, then, should I be speaking?  The two others are too young.”