"
"Nor for France," I suggested.
He laughed, as he rolled a kernel of parched corn on his tongue.
"Tut, tut! that is another thing. We the fashion of an hour, but
France is a fact as stubborn as the natures of you English; for
beyond stubbornness and your Shakespeare you have little. Down
among the moles, in the peasants' huts, the spirit of France never
changes--it is always the same; it is for all time. You English,
nor all others, you can not blow out that candle which is the spirit
of France. I remember of the Abbe Bobon preaching once upon the
words, 'The spirit of man is the candle of the Lord'; well, the
spirit of France is the candle of Europe, and you English will be
its screen against the blowing out, though in spasms of stupidity
you flaunt the extinguisher. You--you have no imagination, no
passion, no temperament, no poetry. Yet I am wrong. The one thing
you have--"
He broke off, nodding his head in amusement. "Yes, you have, but
it is a secret. You English are the true lovers, we French the true
poets; and I will tell you why. You are a race of comrades, the
French of gentlemen; you cleave to a thing, we to an idea; you love
a woman best when she is near, we when she is away; you make a
romance of marriage, we of intrigue; you feed upon yourselves, we
upon the world; you have fever in your blood, we in our brains; you
believe the world was made in seven days, we have no God; you would
fight for the seven days, we would fight for the danseuse on a
bonbon box.
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