different ways, by so many similar tastes, by so many affinities of body, of mind, and of character, and so many ties of all kinds that the whole shall form a union of bonds.  That which we love, in short, is not so much Madame X. or Monsieur Z.; it is a women or a man, a creature without a name, something sprung from Nature, that great female, with organs, a form, a heart, a mind, a combination of attributes which like a magnet attract our organs, our eyes, our lips, our hearts, our thoughts, all our appetites, sensual as well as intellectual.  We love a type, that is, the reunion in one single person of all the human qualities that may separately attract us in others.”

For him, the Comtesse de Guilleroy had been this type, and their long-standing liaison, of which he had not wearied, proved it to him beyond doubt.  Now, Annette so much resembled physically what her mother had been as to deceive the eye; so there was nothing astonishing in the fact that this man’s heart had been surprised, if even it had not been wholly captured.  He had adored one woman!  Another woman was born of her, almost her counterpart.  He could not prevent himself from bestowing on the latter a little tender remnant of the passionate attachment he had had for the former.  There was no harm nor danger in that.  Only his eyes and his memory allowed themselves to be deluded by this appearance of resurrection; but his instinct never had been affected, for never had he felt the least stirring of desire for the young girl.

However, the Countess had reproached him with being jealous of the Marquis!  Was it true?  Again he examined his conscience severely, and decided that as a matter of fact he was indeed a little jealous.  What was there astonishing in that, after all?  Are we not always being jealous of men who pay court to no matter what woman?  Does not one experience in the street, at a restaurant, or a theater, a little feeling of enmity toward the gentleman who is passing or who enters with a lovely girl on his arm?  Every possessor of a woman is a rival, a triumphant male, a conqueror envied by all the other males.  And then, without considering these physiological reasons, if it was natural that he should have for Annette a sympathy a little excessive because of his love for her mother, was it not natural also that he should feel in his heart a little masculine hatred of the future husband?  He could conquer this unworthy feeling without much trouble.

But in the depths of his heart he still felt a sort of bitter discontent with himself and with the Countess.  Would not their daily intercourse be made disagreeable by the suspicion that he would be aware of in her?  Should he not be compelled to watch with tiresome and scrupulous attention all that he said and did, his very looks, his slightest approach toward the young girl? for all that he might do or say would appear suspicious to the mother.  He reached his home in a gloomy mood and began to smoke cigarettes, with