in that they never fell within our surmise beforehand; and artless, in that after we have become their victims we can do nothing but marvel at them and say: 'What! She deceived me truly and stupidly.' And they always succeed, my dear fellow, above all when it is a question of their getting married. And here is the story of Monsieur Jean Summer:

"The girl was a model, as you have learned. She would sit in his studio in whatever poses he wished — exquisite in form, droll in temper, graceful in figure — and he fell in love with her as a man falls in love with any girl of her stamp in beauty and charm; then he fancied that love of her had seized his whole heart. Here is a strange phenomenon: when a man desires a woman, he sincerely believes he could not live without her for the rest of his days; yet once he possesses her he tires of her. Brute appetite can never keep him at her side for a whole lifetime; something else is needed — an accord of soul, of nature, and of temperament. It is a man's duty, when a woman bewitches him, to consider whether this bewitchment proceeds from the enticement of the body or from the attraction of the soul. The short of it is that he loved her, or thought he did; he pledged her his devotion and promised her his constancy, and he and she lived on that hope. In truth the girl was charming, and her charm was heightened by that amiable silliness which belongs to the little Parisiennes: she would chatter and rattle on and utter absurdities which the odd manner of her delivery made seem like feats of wit. At every moment she had gestures that captivated the painter's eye: when she lifted her arms, when she spread her hands, when she bent over, when she climbed into a carriage, her movements were exact, measured, and apt. For three months Jean did not notice that in the truth of her nature she resembled all the other models; then he rented a little house at Andrésy for the two of them to spend the summer in. I was there one evening when the first cares began to sprout in my friend's heart. It was a moonlit

night, and we wanted to take a turn along the bank of the river; the moon poured down on the shivering water a torrent of light, breaking its yellow beams

on the eddies of the water, the current of the deep, and the swell of the slow, escaping river.

"We walked along the shore, drunk with that vague exhilaration which

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