"One must arrange for the stomach before talking about love. And how, then, is a young man to provide for a girl when he can't provide for himself? Let the girl alone until you begin to see the way. Don't be ridiculous, Monsieur Jean. No woman can love a man who is ridiculous. Jamais!"
Love is not exactly a synonyme for Reason. To be in love is in a measure to part company with the power of ratiocination. Nevertheless, Jean saw in an absent-minded way that Mlle. Fouchette, for whom he had never entertained even that casual respect accorded by the Anglo-Saxon to womanhood in general, spoke the words of sense and soberness. His intolerant nature, that would never have brooked such freedom from a friend, allowed everything from one who was too insignificant to excite resentment or even reply. In the same fashion Jean was touched by the exhibition of human interest and womanly sympathy in this waif of civilization. And he was of too gentle a heart not to meet it with a show of appreciation. It gave her pleasure and did not hurt him. The fact that she was probably abandoned and vicious in no wise lessened this consideration,—possibly increased his confidence in her disinterested counsel.
In Paris one elbows this species every day,—in the Quartier Latin young Frenchmen come in contact with it every night,—and without that sense of self-abasement or disgust evoked by similar association in the United States. The line of demarcation that separates respectability from shame is not rigidly drawn in Paris; in the Quartier Latin, where the youth of France and, to a considerable extent, of the whole world are prepared for earth and heaven, it cannot be said to be drawn at all.
By his misfortunes Jean Marot had unexpectedly fallen within her reach. With her natural spirit of domination she had at once appropriated the position of mentor and manager. The precocious worldliness of her mentality amused while it sometimes astonished him. This comparatively ignorant girl of eighteen had no hesitation in guiding the man of more mature years, and succeeded through her naïveté rather than by force of character. The weakest of women can dominate the strongest of men.
"Doctors never prescribe for themselves," she said, by way of justifying her interest in him. "Is it not so, Monsieur Jean?"
"No; but they call in somebody of their own profession," he replied.
"Not if he had the same disease, surely!" she retorted.
"So you think love a disease?" he laughingly asked.
"Virulent, but not catching," said she, helping him to some soup.
There were no soup-plates and she had dipped it from the pot with a teacup and served it in a bowl; but the soup was just as good and was rich with vegetable nutrition. He showed his appreciation by a vigorous onslaught.