Garain, who did not like Paul Vence’s ingenious turn of wit and language, tried to hasten the conclusion:
“In a word,” he said, “there was something of the monster in the man.”
“There are no monsters,” replied Paul Vence; “and men who pass for monsters inspire horror. Napoleon was loved by an entire people. He had the power to win the love of men. The joy of his soldiers was to die for him.”
Countess Martin would have wished Dechartre to give his opinion. But he excused himself with a sort of fright.
“Do you know,” said Schmoll again, “the parable of the three rings, sublime inspiration of a Portuguese Jew.”
Garain, while complimenting Paul Vence on his brilliant paradox, regretted that wit should be exercised at the expense of morality and justice.
“One great principle,” he said, “is that men should be judged by their acts.”
“And women?” asked Princess Seniavine, brusquely; “do you judge them by their acts? And how do you know what they do?”
The sound of voices was mingled with the clear tintinabulation of silverware. A warm air bathed the room. The roses shed their leaves on the cloth. More ardent thoughts mounted to the brain.
General Lariviere fell into dreams.
“When public clamor has split my ears,” he said to his neighbor, “I shall go to live at Tours. I shall cultivate flowers.”
He flattered himself on being a good gardener; his name had been given to a rose. This pleased him highly.
Schmoll asked again if they knew the parable of the three rings.