In spite of his natural assurance, Nathan never dared, during the rest of the winter, either to speak to the countess or even approach her.
But he opened his heart to Blondet; to him he talked of his Laura and his Beatrice, apropos of Madame de Vandenesse.

He even made a paraphrase of the following beautiful passage from the pen of Theophile Gautier, one of the most remarkable poets of our day:-- "'Ideala, flower of heaven's own blue, with heart of gold, whose fibrous roots, softer, a thousandfold, than fairy tresses, strike to our souls and drink their purest essence; flower most sweet and bitter! thou canst not be torn away without the heart's blood flowing, without thy bruised stems sweating with scarlet tears.

Ah! cursed flower, why didst thou grow within my soul ?'" "My dear fellow," said Blondet, "you are raving.

I'll grant it was a pretty flower, but it wasn't a bit ideal, and instead of singing like a blind man before an empty niche, you had much better wash your hands and make submission to the powers.

You are too much of an artist ever to be a good politician; you have been fooled by men of not one-half your value.