There appeared before my astonished eyes a woman, very pale, carrying a bouquet in her hands, to which was attached a piece of paper bearing these words “To Octave, from his friend Desgenais.”

I had no sooner read these words than a flash of light came to me.  I understood the meaning of this action of Desgenais in making me this African gift.  It made me think.  The poor woman was weeping and did not dare dry her tears for fear I would see them.  I said to her:  “You may return and fear nothing.”

She replied that if she should return Desgenais would send her back to Paris.  “Yes,” I replied, “you are beautiful and I am susceptible to temptation, but you weep, and your tears not being shed for me, I care nothing for the rest.  Go, therefore, and I will see to it that you are not sent back to Paris.”

One of my peculiarities is that meditation, which with many is a firm and constant quality of the mind, is in my case an instinct independent of the will, and seizes me like a fit of passion.  It comes to me at intervals in its own good time, regardless of my will and in almost any place.  But when it comes I can do nothing against it.  It takes me whither it pleases by whatever route seems good to it.

When the woman had left, I sat up.

“My friend,” I said to myself, “behold what has been sent you.  If Desgenais had not seen fit to send you his mistress he would not have been mistaken, perhaps, in supposing that you might fall in love with her.

“Have you well considered it?  A sublime and divine mystery is accomplished.  Such a being costs nature the most vigilant maternal care; yet man, who would cure you, can think of nothing better than to offer you lips which belong to him in order to teach you how to cease to love.

“How was it accomplished?  Others than you have doubtless admired her, but they ran no risk.  She might employ all the seduction she pleased; you alone were in danger.

“It must be that Desgenais has a heart, since he lives.  In what respect does he differ from you.  He is a man who believes in nothing, fears nothing, who knows no care or ennui, perhaps, and yet it is clear that a scratch on the finger would fill him with terror, for if his body abandons him, what becomes of him?  He lives only in the body.  What sort of creature is he who treats his soul as the flagellants treat their bodies?  Can one live without a head?

“Think of it.  Here is a man who possesses one of the most beautiful women in the world; he is young and ardent; he finds her beautiful and tells her so; she replies that she loves him.  Some one touches him on the shoulder and says to him:  ‘She is unfaithful.’  Nothing more, he is sure of himself.  If some one had said:  ‘She is a poisoner,’ he would, perhaps have continued to love her, he would not have given her a kiss less; but she is unfaithful, and it is no more a question of love with him than of the star of Saturn.