thought she could have blossomed so! She was all light and softness
and air; she is now all fire and skill as well. Matchless!
matchless! Every day sees her with some new capacity, some fresh
and delicate aplomb. She has set the town admiring, and jealous
mothers prophesy trist ending for her. Her swift mastery of the
social arts is weird, they say. La! la! The social arts! A good
brain, a gift of penetration, a manner--which is a grand necessity,
and it must be with birth--no heart to speak of, and the rest is
easy. No heart--there is the thing; with a good brain and senses all
warm with life--to feel, but never to have the arrow strike home.
You must never think to love and be loved, and be wise too. The
emotions blind the judgment. Be heartless, be perfect with heavenly
artifice, and, if you are a woman, have no vitriol on your
tongue--and you may rule at Versailles or Quebec. But with this
difference: in Quebec you may be virtuous; at Versailles you must
not. It is a pity that you may not meet Mademoiselle Duvarney. She
would astound you. She was a simple ballad a year ago; to-morrow she
may be an epic."

He nodded at me reflectively, and went on:

"'Mademoiselle,' said the Chevalier de la Darante to her at
dinner, some weeks ago, 'if I were young, I should adore you.'
'Monsieur,' she answered, 'you use that "if" to shirk the
responsibility.' That put him on his mettle. 'Then, by the gods,
I adore you now,' he answered. 'If I were young, I should blush
to hear you say so,' was her reply. 'I empty out my heart, and
away trips the disdainful nymph with a laugh,' he rejoined gaily,
the rusty old courtier; 'there's nothing left but to fall upon
my sword!' 'Disdainful nymphs are the better scabbards for