His discreet confidences, however, were of no avail; he was not discreet
enough. If he had challenged the bona fides of Sebastian Dolores only, he
might have been convincing, but he used the word "they" constantly, and
that roused the chivalry of Jean Jacques. That the comely, careful Carmen
should be party to an imposture was intolerable. Everything about her
gave it the lie. Her body was so perfect and complete, so finely
contrived and balanced, so cunningly curved with every line filled in;
her eye was so full of lustre and half-melancholy too; her voice had such
a melodious monotone; her mouth was so ripe and yet so distant in its
luxury, that imposture was out of the question.
Ah, but Jean Jacques was a champion worth while! He did nothing by
halves. He was of the breed of men who grow more intense, more convinced,
more thorough, as they talk. One adjective begets another, one warm
allusion gives birth to a warmer, one flashing impulse evokes a brighter
confidence, till the atmosphere is flaming with conviction. If Jean
Jacques started with faint doubt regarding anything, and allowed himself
betimes the flush of a declaration of belief, there could be but one end.
He gathered fire as he moved, impulse expanded into momentum, and
momentum became an Ariel fleeing before the dark. He would start by
offering a finger to be pricked, and would end by presenting his own head
on a charger.
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