I am like a comet, she is like the sun steady, steady, round and round, with plenty of sleep and the comfortable darkness.

Sometimes madame goes hard; so does the sun in summer-shines, shines, shines like a furnace.

Madame's body goes like that--at the dairy, in the garden, with the loom, among the fowls, growing her strawberries, keeping the women at the beating of the flax; and then again it is all still and idle like the sun on a cloudy day; and it rests.

So it is with the human soul--I am a philosopher--I think the soul goes hard the same as the body, churning, churning away in the heat of the sun; and then it gets quiet and goes to sleep in the cloudy day, when the body is sick of its bouncing, and it has a rest--the soul has a rest, which is good for it, m'sieu'.

I have worked it all out so.
Besides, the soul of madame is her own.