"She has needed," I replied to the Baron, "but one thing,--to be
aroused, to be kindled. See, it is done! I have thought that a life of
cabinets and policy might achieve this, for her talent is second not
even to her beauty."
"It is unhappy that both should be wasted," said the Baron. "She, of
course, will never marry."
"Why not?"
"For various reasons."
"One?"
"She is poor."
"Which will not signify to your Excellency. Another?"
"She is too beautiful. One would fall in love with her. And to love
one's own wife--it is ridiculous!"
"Who should know?" I asked.
"All the world would suspect and laugh."
"Let those laugh that win."
"No,--she would never do as a wife; but then as"----
"But then in France we do not insult hospitality!"
The Baron transferred his gaze to me for a moment, then tapped his
snuff-box, and approached the circle round Delphine.
It was odd that we, the arch enemies of the hour, could speak without
the intervention of seconds; but I hoped that the Baron's conversation
might be diverting,--the Baron hoped that mine might be didactic.
They were very gay with Delphine. He leaned on the back of a chair and
listened. One spoke of the new gallery of the Tuileries, and the five
pavilions,--a remark which led us to architecture.
"We all build our own houses," said Delphine, at last, "and then
complain that they cramp us here, and the wind blows in there, while
the fault is not in the order, but in us, who increase here and shrink
there--without reason.
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