It had never occurred to him that he was ever translating the world into
terms of himself, that he went on his way saying in effect, "I am coming.
I am Jean Jacques Barbille. You have heard of me. You know me. Wave a
hand to me, duck your head to me, crack the whip or nod when I pass. I am
M'sieu' Jean Jacques, philosopher."
And all the while he had only been vaguely, not really, conscious of his
wife and child. He did not know that he had only made of his wife an
incident in his life, in spite of the fact that he thought he loved her;
that he had been proud of her splendid personality; and that, with
passionate chivalry, he had resented any criticism of her.
He thought still, as he did on the Antoine, that Carmen's figure had the
lines of the Venus of Milo, that her head would have been a model either
for a Madonna, or for Joan of Arc, or the famous Isabella of Aragon.
Having visited the Louvre and the Luxembourg all in one day, he felt he
was entitled to make such comparisons, and that in making them he was on
sure ground. He had loved to kiss Carmen in the neck, it was so full and
soft and round; and when she went about the garden with her dress
shortened, and he saw her ankles, even after he had been married thirteen
years, and she was thirty-four, he still admired, he still thought that
the world was a good place when it produced such a woman.
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