"Nor do I; but it may be that in love the statue is what one builds in his head, and the mummy what he takes into his heart."
Another day, he sketched Thérèse, in a pensive, melancholy attitude, in an album which she then looked through, finding there a dozen sketches of women whose insolent attitudes and shameless expressions made her blush. They were phantoms of the past which had passed through Laurent's memory, and had clung to those white pages, perhaps, in spite of him. Thérèse, without a word, tore out the leaf upon which she was given a place in that vile company, threw it into the fire, closed the album, and placed it on the table; then she sat down by the fire, put her foot on the andiron, and attempted to talk of something else.
Laurent did not reply, but said to her:
"You are too proud, my dear! If you had burned all the leaves that offended you and left only your own image in the album, I should have understood, and I should have said: 'You do well;' but to withdraw and leave the others there, signifies that you will never dispute possession of me with any one."
"I disputed possession of you with debauchery," Thérèse replied; "I shall never do so much with any of those creatures."
"Well, that is pride, I say again; it is not love. Now, I disputed possession of you with Virtue, and I would do the same with any one of her monks."
"Why should you? Aren't you tired of loving the statue? is not the mummy in your heart?"
"Ah! you have a marvellous memory! Great God! what does a word amount to? Every one interprets it as he pleases. An innocent man may be hanged for a word. I see that I must be careful what I say with you; perhaps the most prudent way would be never to talk together."
"Mon Dieu! have we reached that point?" said Thérèse, bursting into tears.
They had reached that point. To no purpose did Laurent melt with her tears and beg her pardon for having caused them to flow: the trouble broke out afresh the next day.