"They can then feel, provided that they reason and understand, why they have done one thing rather than another, but, for the moment, they do not know, for they are the playthings of their own sensibility, the thoughtless, giddy-headed slaves of events, of their surroundings, of chance meetings, and of all the sensations with which their soul and their body trembles!"
Monsieur Auballe had risen, and, after walking up and down the room once or twice, he looked at me, and said, with a smile:—
"That is love in the desert!"
"Suppose she were to come back?" I asked him.
"Horrid girl!" he replied.
"But I should be very glad if she did return to me."
"And you would pardon the shepherd?"
"Good heavens, yes! With women, one must always pardon ... or else pretend not to see things."