‘But the fits of ferocity!’
‘They are inconscient, real fits. They come of a hot nerve. He is manageable, sober too, when his mind is charged. As to the French people, they are the most mixed of any European nation; so they are packed with contrasts: they are full of sentiment, they are sharply logical; free-thinkers, devotees; affectionate, ferocious; frivolous, tenacious; the passion of the season operating like sun or moon on these qualities; and they can reach to ideality out of sensualism. Below your level, they’re above it: a paradox is at home with them!’
‘My friend, you speak seriously—an unusual compliment,’ Nataly said, and ungratefully continued: ‘You know what is occupying me. I want your opinion. I guess it. I want to hear—a mean thirst perhaps, and you would pay me any number of compliments to avoid the subject; but let me hear:—this house!’
Colney shrugged in resignation. ‘Victor works himself out,’ he replied.
‘We are to go through it all again?’
‘If you have not the force to contain him.’
‘How contain him?’
Up went Colney’s shoulders.
‘You may see it all before you,’ he said, ‘straight as the Seine chaussee from the hill of La Roche Guyon.’
He looked for her recollection of the scene.