Gontran, who was keeping mum, was asked what he thought of it.

“I guess Paris is about the best place for that,” he said.  “Woman is like a precious trinket, we appreciate her all the more when we meet her in the most unexpected places; but the rarest ones are only to be found in Paris.”

He was silent for a moment, and then continued: 

“By Jove, it’s great!  Walk along the streets on some spring morning.  The little women, daintily tripping along, seem to blossom out like flowers.  What a delightful, charming sight!  The dainty perfume of violet is everywhere.  The city is gay, and everybody notices the women.  By Jove, how tempting they are in their light, thin dresses, which occasionally give one a glimpse of the delicate pink flesh beneath!

“One saunters along, head up, mind alert, and eyes open.  I tell you it’s great!  You see her in the distance, while still a block away; you already know that she is going to please you at closer quarters.  You can recognize her by the flower on her hat, the toss of her head, or her gait.  She approaches, and you say to yourself:  ‘Look out, here she is!’ You come closer to her and you devour her with your eyes.

“Is it a young girl running errands for some store, a young woman returning from church, or hastening to see her lover?  What do you care?  Her well-rounded bosom shows through the thin waist.  Oh, if you could only take her in your arms and fondle and kiss her!  Her glance may be timid or bold, her hair light or dark.  What difference does it make?  She brushes against you, and a cold shiver runs down your spine.  Ah, how you wish for her all day!  How many of these dear creatures have I met this way, and how wildly in love I would have been had I known them more intimately.

“Have you ever noticed that the ones we would love the most distractedly are those whom we never meet to know?  Curious, isn’t it?  From time to time we barely catch a glimpse of some woman, the mere sight of whom thrills our senses.  But it goes no further.  When I think of all the adorable creatures that I have elbowed in the streets of Paris, I fairly rave.  Who are they!  Where are they?  Where can I find them again?  There is a proverb which says that happiness often passes our way; I am sure that I have often passed alongside the one who could have caught me like a linnet in the snare of her fresh beauty.”

Roger des Annettes had listened smilingly.  He answered:  “I know that as well as you do.  This is what happened to me:  About five years ago, for the first time I met, on the Pont de la Concorde, a young woman who made a wonderful impression on me.  She was dark, rather stout, with glossy hair, and eyebrows which nearly met above two dark eyes.  On her lip was a scarcely perceptible down, which made one dream-dream as one dreams of beloved woods, on seeing a bunch of wild violets.  She had a small waist and a well-developed bust, which seemed to present a challenge, offer a temptation.  Her eyes were like two black spots on white enamel.  Her glance was strange, vacant, unthinking, and yet wonderfully beautiful.