Having bowed, not without a certain ironic charm, she departed, certain now that her article would be accepted.
Fortier chided his secretary. She had paid with her person, payment signed and received. Her prose could no longer be refused; but she should get no money.
"Renaudeau, you must sacrifice yourself."
"Well," said Renaudeau, "this jade is full of surprises. I accept."
Moscowitch, very much astonished, found these customs singular. He asked Entragues:
"And will this woman's article, even if wretched, appear in the Revue simply because she has shown her leg?"
"Yes," Entragues answered distractedly, for he reflected, while listening to Moscowitch's question, how dangerous such a profoundly naive man might be. "He must be full of spontaneity, like a concealed spring which the blow of a pickax puts in motion. Some day Sixtine will wound his heart and violent effusions of love will burst forth from the wound. It would be well to watch him, to infuse him with literary distraction. This would be a way: have him understand that he has genius, that he owes it to himself, to his two fatherlands, to humanity, not to put the marvelous plant in jeopardy, the plant which ... which ... God, Nature, Glory and other entities ... I am not at all jealous ... my chapter cured me of jealousy this morning. I have tortured Delia Preda and the tormentor has let fall the pincers which tortured my flesh ... not jealous, but uneasy. In short, it is a question of myself, I have incorporated Sixtine into my life. If she is taken away, I am mutilated."
"Indeed," he told Moscowitch, as there entered a lean, insipid-looking person, whose eyes were terrified by apocalyptic visions, "here is a type worth observing. It is in vain for you to have talent, and even more than talent (good), my dear friend (these familiar words give value to the compliment, by clothing it with sincerity), yes, despite my inclination to irony I must end by confessing the impression you have made on me (his eyes light up), yes, more than talent (the flower expands: open, precious flower of vanity, exhale thy heady odor, intoxicate him!) ... well, nothing must be neglected ... observation ... the little characteristic facts ... these nothings which, capitalized, give a drama, just as a novel, an inimitable air of real Truth (apostate) ... Truth ... my dear ... the truth (a ladder would be needed to paint on the curtain of nothingness the capital belonging to this word....
TRUTH
He commences to understand that I wish him well) ... Listen to him, he is called Blondin and was as fine as his name, as pretty as a heart, but women have left only the shell."