'You may be a diplomatist, you may be a politician of the first ability, you may be a capitalist with the largest income,' said madame, 'but,' and she waved her fan, 'if you do not love, you are nothing.'
'Madame,' asked the Intendant, 'I shall be glad to learn what you know about Gabrielle André.'
'About Gabrielle André,' repeated the little woman; 'quite so; in due time, we are coming to her. Now, what do you take me for?'
'Madame, for the most fascinating specimen of your sex.'
'Quite so. Well, would you believe it, I have a barbarous name, a German-Swiss name, which is a mouthful—a name to tremble at, a name for a horse to shy at, for a dog to bark at, for a cat to set up its back at. And yet I am French at heart. From the tip of my hair to the soles of my feet I am French, French—always French. Hold! There is always something dapper, comely, sweet about a Frenchwoman which you cannot find in the great German frau, who is all fat and lymph, and languor. And the Frenchman, too. He is an object to adore; he is a man sensitive, courteous, gallant; a being to excite the heart, to inspire enthusiasm, to claim devotion; but a German! My faith! I am married, I am sacrificed to a German-Swiss. Do not ask me to describe him; I should expire in making the attempt. The Frenchman is all vehemence, go, fire, and the German is all conscience. But you will tell me that the German has sentiment. I grant you it. But of what nature? It is all of the past, and ours is of the present. We live and palpitate for to-day, the Herr for five hundred years ago. Yesterday is nothing to me; to him yesterday is everything, and to-day is nothing. A German child is to me a wonder; it is not like any French child I ever met. It lives in dreamland, a dreamland peopled with fairies; now a French child cares for no fairies which are not made of chocolate, which it cannot suck.'
'What about Gabrielle?' asked Berthier, impatiently.
'There, now,' said Madame Deschwanden, 'I quite understand about your interest in her. I could not get the same idea into the corporal's head if I were to use a gimlet. But I—I am French, I delight in sentiment, I love intrigue, I worship the noble passion. I can throw myself entirely into your position, and I can feel with you and for you. That is splendid—that is French! Well, then, I say to you, monsieur, you have gone the wrong way to work; you have used wrong methods, you have exhibited barbarous ignorance, you have acted altogether like a German. Where is the delicacy of touch, the subtlety of intrigue, the finesse of action that belongs to one of your nation? I look for it, and I find it not. I repeat it, you have gone the wrong way to work. You have used coarse methods, and you have shown your utter ignorance of the female character. You should not have employed force, that is certain to revolt; you should not have offered a bribe openly, you should have vaguely suggested advantages; you should not have exhibited yourself as a tyrant, you should have acted the martyr. Why!' cried Madame Deschwanden, 'I—I would have rebelled, and spoken, and scratched, and bitten, if I had been blockaded in the brutal, clumsy manner you have adopted in laying siege to Gabrielle. You know absolutely nothing of the art of conducting these little affairs of the heart. Mon Dieu! I—I could have accomplished a triumph in half the time without a quarter of the material.'