He lost her
love by the delicacy of his dissimulation, that left her ignorant of the
sacrifices he was making for her.
Noel adored Juliette. Until the fatal day he saw her, he had lived like
a sage. This, his first passion, burned him up; and, from the disaster,
he saved only appearances.
The four walls remained standing, but the interior of the edifice was
destroyed. Even heroes have their vulnerable parts, Achilles died from
a wound in the heel. The most artfully constructed armour has a flaw
somewhere. Noel was assailable by means of Juliette, and through her
was at the mercy of everything and every one. In four years, this
model young man, this advocate of immaculate reputation, this austere
moralist, had squandered not only his own fortune on her, but Madame
Gerdy's also. He loved her madly, without reflection, without measure,
with his eyes shut. At her side, he forgot all prudence, and thought out
loud. In her boudoir, he dropped his mask of habitual dissimulation, and
his vices displayed themselves, at ease, as his limbs in a bath. He felt
himself so powerless against her, that he never essayed to struggle. She
possessed him.
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