Some folk might say that I am
unmaidenly in this. But I care not, I fear not.
December 24. I was with Robert to-day. I let him see what trials I
had had with Monsieur Doltaire, and what were like to come. It hurt
me to tell him, yet it would have hurt me more to withhold them. I
am hurt whichever way it goes. Monsieur Doltaire rouses the worst
parts of me. On the one hand I detest him for his hatred of Robert
and for his evil life, yet on the other I must needs admire him for
his many graces--why are not the graces of the wicked horrible?--for
his singular abilities, and because, gamester though he may be, he
is no public robber. Then, too, the melancholy of his birth and
history claims some sympathy. Sometimes when I listen to him speak,
hear the almost piquant sadness of his words, watch the spirit of
isolation which, by design or otherwise, shows in him, for the
moment I am conscious of a pity or an interest which I flout in
wiser hours. This is his art, the potent danger of his personality.
To-night he came, and with many fine phrases wished us a happy
day to-morrow, and most deftly worked upon my mother and Georgette
by looking round and speaking with a quaint sort of raillery--half
pensive, it was--of the peace of this home-life of ours; and indeed,
he did it so inimitably that I was not sure how much was false
and how much true.
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