just as elsewhere; but, my poor mother, they are these things just as little as possible.  The whole interest centres not in the homes; but in the streets, the museums, the salons, the theatres, and the clubs.  It radiates to the immense outside life, which in all its forms night and day agitates Paris, attracts, excites, and enervates you; steals your time, your mind, your soul—­and devours them all!

   “Paris is the most delicious of places to visit—­the worst of places
   to live in.

“Understand well, my mother, that in seeking by what qualifies I can best attract my husband—­who is the best of men, doubtless, but of Parisian men nevertheless—­I have continually reflected on merits which may be seen at once, which do not require time to be appreciated.

“Finally, I do not deny that all this is miserable cynicism, unworthy of you and of myself; for you know I am not at heart a bad little woman.  Certainly, if I could keep Monsieur de Camors for a year or two at an old chateau in the midst of a solitary wood, I should like it much.  I could then see him more frequently, I could then become familiar with his august person, and could develop my little talents under his charmed eyes.  But then this might weary him and would be too easy.  Life and happiness, I know, are not so easily managed.  All is difficulty, peril, and conflict.

“What joy, then, to conquer!  And I swear to you, my mother, that I will conquer!  I will force him to know me as you know me; to love me, not as he now does, but as you do, for many good reasons of which he does not yet dream.

“Not that he believes me absolutely a fool; I think he has abandoned
that idea for at least two days past.

“How he came thus to think, my next letter shall explain.

“Your own

“Marie.”

CHAPTER XVI

THE REPTILE STRIVES TO CLIMB

“March.

“You will remember, my mother, that the Count has as secretary a man named Vautrot.  The name is a bad one; but the man himself is a good enough creature, except that I somewhat dislike his catlike style of looking at one.

“Well, Monsieur de Vautrot lives in the house with us.  He comes early in the morning, breakfasts at some neighboring cafe, passes the day in the Count’s study, and often remains to dine with us, if he has work to finish in the evening.

“He is an educated man, and knows a little of everything; and he has undertaken many occupations before he accepted the subordinate though lucrative post he now occupies with my husband.  He loves literature; but not that of his time and of his country, perhaps because he himself has failed in this.  He prefers foreign writers and poets, whom he quotes with some taste, though with too much declamation.