Could
it be that after thinking him lofty and witty in soul, his young, his
artless, his tricksome mistress now thought him handsome? This
flattery is the flattery supreme. And why? Beauty is, undoubtedly, the
signature of the master to the work into which he has put his soul; it
is the divine spirit manifested. And to see it where it is not, to
create it by the power of an inward look,--is not that the highest
reach of love? And so the poor youth cried aloud with all the rapture
of an applauded author, "At last I am beloved!" When a woman, be she
maid, wife, or widow, lets the charming words escape her, "Thou art
handsome," the words may be false, but the man opens his thick skull
to their subtle poison, and thenceforth he is attached by an
everlasting tie to the pretty flatterer, the true or the deceived
judge; she becomes his particular world, he thirsts for her continual
testimony, and he never wearies of it, even if he is a crowned prince.
Ernest walked proudly up and down his room; he struck a three-quarter,
full-face, and profile attitude before the glass; he tried to
criticise himself; but a voice, diabolically persuasive, whispered to
him, "Modeste is right.
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