A month later, in the little studio, Renée said to Denoisel: "Am I
really romantic--do you think I am?"
"Romantic--romantic? In the first place, what do you mean by romantic?"
"Oh, you know what I mean; having ideas that are not like every one
else's, and fancying a lot of things that can never happen. For
instance, a girl is romantic when it would be a great trouble to her to
marry, as girls do marry, a man with nothing extraordinary about him,
who is introduced to her by papa and mamma, and who has not even so much
as saved her life by stopping a horse that has taken fright, or by
dragging her out of the water. You don't imagine I'm one of that sort, I
hope?"
"No; at least I don't know at all. I'd wager that you yourself don't
know, either."
"Nonsense. It may be, in the first place, because I have no imagination;
but it has always seemed to me so odd to have an ideal--to dream about
some imaginary man. It's just the same with the heroes in novels;
they've never turned my head. I always think they are too well-bred, too
handsome, too rotten, with all their accomplishments. I get so sick of
them in the end. But it isn't that. Tell me now, suppose they wanted to
make you live your whole life long with a creature--a creature who----"
"A creature--what sort of a creature?"
"Let me finish what I am saying. A man, then, who did not answer at all
to certain delicate little requirements of your nature, who did not
strike you as being poetical--there, that's what I mean--not a scrap
poetical, but who on the other hand made up for what was wanting in him,
in other ways, by such kindness--well, such kindness as one never meets
with----"
"As much kindness as all that? Oh, I should not hesitate; I should take
the kindness blindfold. Dear me, yes, indeed I should. It's so rare."
"You think kindness worth a great deal then?"
"I do, Renée. I value it as one values what one has lost."
"You? Why, you are always very kind."
"I am not downright bad; but that's all. I might perhaps be envious if I
had more modesty and less pride. But as for always being kind, oh no, I
am not. Life cures you of that just as it cures you of being a child.
One gets over one's good-nature, Renée, just as one gets over
teething."
"Then you think that a kindly disposition and a good heart----"
"Yes, I mean the goodness that endures in spite of men and in spite of
experience--such goodness as I have met with in a primitive state in two
or three men in my life. I look upon it as the best and most divine
quality a man can have."
"Yes, but if a man who is very good, as good as those you describe--this
is just a supposition, you know--suppose he had feet that looked like
lumps of cake in his boots. And then, suppose he were corpulent, this
good man, this very good man?"
"Well, one need not look at his feet nor at his corpulency--that's all.
Oh, I beg your pardon, though, of course, I had completely forgotten."
"What?"
"Oh, nothing; except that you are a woman."
"But that's very insulting to my sex--that remark of yours."
Denoisel did not answer, and the conversation ceased for a few minutes.
"Have you ever wished for wealth?" Renée began again.
"Yes, several times; but absolutely for the sake of treating it as it
deserves to be treated--to be disrespectful to it."
"How do you mean?"
"Why, yes, I should like to be rich just to show the contempt I have
for money. I remember that two or three times I have fallen asleep with
the idea of going to Italy to get married."
"To Italy?"
"Yes, there are more Russian princesses there than anywhere else, and
Russian princesses are the only women left in this world who will marry
a man without a farthing. Then, too, I was prepared to be contented with
a princess who was not very well off. I was not at all exacting, and
would have come down without a murmur to thirty thousand pounds a year.
That was my very lowest figure though."
"Indeed!" said Renée laughing. "And what should you have done with all
that money?"
"I should just have poured it away in streams between my fingers; it
would have been something astounding to see; something that I have never
seen rich people do with their money. I think all the millionaires ought
to be ashamed of themselves. For instance, from the way in which a man
lives who has four thousand a year, and the way a man lives who has
forty thousand, could you tell their difference of fortune? Now with me
you would have known. For a whole year I should have flung away my money
in all kinds of caprices, fancies, and follies; I should have dazzled
and fairly humiliated Paris; I should have been like a sun-god showering
bank-notes down; I should have positively degraded my gold by all kinds
of prodigalities; and at the end of a year, day for day, I should have
left my wife."
"Nonsense!"
"Certainly; in order to prove to myself that I did not love money. If I
had not left her, I should have considered myself dishonoured."
"Well, what extraordinary ideas! I must confess that I haven't arrived
at your philosophy yet. A large fortune and all that it gives you, all
kinds of enjoyment and luxuries, houses, carriages, and then the
pleasure of making the people you don't like envious--of annoying them.
Oh, I think it would be most delightful to be rich."
"I told you just now, Renée, that you were a woman--merely a woman."