To those who study the social world, it must always be a matter of astonishment to see the fulness, the perfection, and the rapidity with which an idea develops in a virgin nature.

Virginity, like every other monstrosity, has its special richness, its absorbing greatness.  Life, whose forces are always economized, assumes in the virgin creature an incalculable power of resistance and endurance.  The brain is reinforced in the sum-total of its reserved energy.  When really chaste natures need to call on the resources of body or soul, and are required to act or to think, they have muscles of steel, or intuitive knowledge in their intelligence—­diabolical strength, or the black magic of the Will.

From this point of view the Virgin Mary, even if we regard her only as a symbol, is supremely great above every other type, whether Hindoo, Egyptian, or Greek.  Virginity, the mother of great things, magna parens rerum, holds in her fair white hands the keys of the upper worlds.  In short, that grand and terrible exception deserves all the honors decreed to her by the Catholic Church.

Thus, in one moment, Lisbeth Fischer had become the Mohican whose snares none can escape, whose dissimulation is inscrutable, whose swift decisiveness is the outcome of the incredible perfection of every organ of sense.  She was Hatred and Revenge, as implacable as they are in Italy, Spain, and the East.  These two feelings, the obverse of friendship and love carried to the utmost, are known only in lands scorched by the sun.  But Lisbeth was also a daughter of Lorraine, bent on deceit.

She accepted this detail of her part against her will; she began by making a curious attempt, due to her ignorance.  She fancied, as children do, that being imprisoned meant the same thing as solitary confinement.  But this is the superlative degree of imprisonment, and that superlative is the privilege of the Criminal Bench.

As soon as she left Madame Marneffe, Lisbeth hurried off to Monsieur Rivet, and found him in his office.

“Well, my dear Monsieur Rivet,” she began, when she had bolted the door of the room.  “You were quite right.  Those Poles!  They are low villains—­all alike, men who know neither law nor fidelity.”

“And who want to set Europe on fire,” said the peaceable Rivet, “to ruin every trade and every trader for the sake of a country that is all bog-land, they say, and full of horrible Jews, to say nothing of the Cossacks and the peasants—­a sort of wild beasts classed by mistake with human beings.  Your Poles do not understand the times we live in; we are no longer barbarians.  War is coming to an end, my dear mademoiselle; it went out with the Monarchy.  This is the age of triumph for commerce, and industry, and middle-class prudence, such as were the making of Holland.

“Yes,” he went on with animation, “we live in a period when nations must obtain all they need by the legal extension of their liberties and by the pacific action of Constitutional Institutions; that is what the Poles do not see, and I hope——­