Life is an idea, a conception of the brain. It is your own fault if you do not enjoy it.”
“What? I do not know anything about life?” questioned Cœlestin, hastily. “Then what does my renunciation mean, my struggles, my dreams—”
“Renunciation, struggles, dreams, are not life!” said Satan, scornfully. “You have a presentiment of what it is—you child with the longing of a giant and the grief of an old man in your heart.”
“And why do I not know life?” questioned the monk, timidly.
“Because you do not know woman!” replied Satan, laughing.
“Woman?” repeated Cœlestin. “Did I not have a mother?”
“Do not speak of a mother!” interrupted Satan. “Mother is soul—God—but not woman. Woman is flesh—body—and that you do not know. You are very innocent, dear child.” A note of sympathy trembled upon the last words of Satan.
“But how could a woman help to make me happy? I would be happy if I could travel over the beautiful world, climb the mountains nimbly as the goats, fly across the blue with the eagle, or dwell in the blossom-cup of a flower—”
