“A new religion!” said she; “if this pretension should be verified you would only be guilty of heresy, and, without allowing myself to be taken in, I can understand how elevated minds and enthusiastic hearts might be attracted by the promises of a deceptive Utopia; but you, gentlemen, whom I believe to be sincere, do you not see to what an extent you delude yourselves?  What you call religion is the most absolute negation of religious principles; it is the most distressing impiety ornamented with a certain sentimental hypocrisy which has not even the courage frankly to proclaim its principles.”

“I swear to you, Mademoiselle, that I am religious three days out of four,” replied Marillac; “that is something; there are some Christians who are pious only on Sunday.”

“Materialism is the source from which modern literature takes its inspiration,” continued the old lady; “and this poisonous stream not only dries up the thoughts which would expand toward heaven, but also withers all that is noble in human sentiment.  To-day, people are not content to deny God, because they are not pure enough to comprehend Him; they disown even the weakness of the heart, provided they have an exalted and dignified character.  They believe no longer in love.  All the women that your fashionable writers tell us about are vulgar and sometimes unchaste creatures, to whom formerly a gentleman would have blushed to give one glance or to offer a supper.  I say this for your benefit, Monsieur de Gerfaut, for in this respect you are far from being irreproachable; and I could bring forth your books to support my theory.  If I accuse you of atheism, in love, what have you to say in reply?”

Carried away by one of those impulsive emotions which men of imagination can not resist, Octave arose and said: 

“I should not deny such an accusation.  Yes, it is a sad thing, but true, and only weak minds recoil from the truth:  reality exists only in material objects; all the rest is merely deception and fancy.  All poetry is a dream, all spiritualism a fraud!  Why not apply to love the accommodating philosophy which takes the world as it is, and does not throw a savory fruit into the press under the pretext of extracting I know not what imaginary essence?  Two beautiful eyes, a satin skin, white teeth, and a shapely foot and hand are of such positive and inestimable value!  Is it not unreasonable, then, to place elsewhere than in them all the wealth of love?  Intellect sustains its owner, they say; no, intelligence kills.  It is thought that corrupts sensation and causes suffering where, but for that, joy would reign supreme.

“Thought! accursed gift!  Do we give or ask a thought of the rose whose perfume we breathe?  Why not love as we breathe?  Would not woman, considered simply as a perfectly organized vegetation, be the queen of creation?  Why not enjoy her perfume as we bend before her, leaving her clinging to the ground where she was born and lives?  Why tear her from the earth, this flower so fresh, and have her wither in our hands as we raise her up like an offering?  Why make of so weak and fragile a creature a being above all others, for whom our enthusiasm can find no name, and then discover her to be but an unworthy angel?