round genius. The elephant of finance would contract to deliver votes

on a division, or the Greeks to the Turks. For him business means the
sum-total of varieties; as Cousin would say, the unity of specialties.

Looked at in this way, banking becomes a kind of statecraft in itself,
requiring a powerful head; and a man thoroughly tempered is drawn on

to set himself above the laws of a morality that cramps him."
"Right, my son," said Blondet; "but we, and we alone, can comprehend

that this means bringing war into the financial world. A banker is a
conquering general making sacrifices on a tremendous scale to gain

ends that no one perceives; his soldiers are private people's
interests. He has stratagems to plan out, partisans to bring into the

field, ambushes to set, towns to take. Most men of this stamp are so
close upon the borders of politics, that in the end they are drawn

into public life, and thereby lose their fortunes. The firm of Necker,
for instance, was ruined in this way; the famous Samuel Bernard was

all but ruined. Some great capitalist in every age makes a colossal
fortune, and leaves behind him neither fortune nor a family; there was

the firm of Paris Brothers, for instance, that helped to pull down
Law; there was Law himself (beside whom other promoters of companies

are but pigmies); there was Bouret and Beaujon--none of them left any
representative. Finance, like Time, devours its own children. If the

banker is to perpetuate himself, he must found a noble house, a
dynasty; like the Fuggers of Antwerp, that lent money to Charles V.

and were created Princes of Babenhausen, a family that exists at this
day--in the Almanach de Gotha. The instinct of self-preservation,

working it may be unconsciously, leads the banker to seek a title.
Jacques Coeur was the founder of the great noble house of Noirmoutier,

extinct in the reign of Louis XIII. What power that man had! He was
ruined for making a legitimate king; and he died, prince of an island

in the Archipelago, where he built a magnificent cathedral."
"Oh! you are giving us an historical lecture, we are wandering away

from the present, the crown has no right of conferring nobility, and
barons and counts are made with closed doors; more is the pity!" said

Finot.
"You regret the times of the savonnette a vilain, when you could buy

an office that ennobled?" asked Bixiou. "You are right. Je reviens a
nos moutons.--Do you know Beaudenord? No? no? no? Ah, well! See how

all things pass away! Poor fellow, ten years ago he was the flower of
dandyism; and now, so thoroughly absorbed that you no more know him

than Finot just now knew the origin of the expression 'coup de
Jarnac'--I repeat that simply for the sake of illustration, and not to

tease you, Finot. Well, it is a fact, he belonged to the Faubourg
Saint-Germain.

"Beaudenord is the first pigeon that I will bring on the scene. And,
in the first place, his name was Godefroid de Beaudenord; neither

Finot, nor Blondet, nor Couture, nor I am likely to undervalue such an
advantage as that! After a ball, when a score of pretty women stand

behooded waiting for their carriages, with their husbands and adorers
at their sides, Beaudenord could hear his people called without a pang

of mortification. In the second place, he rejoiced in the full
complement of limbs; he was whole and sound, had no mote in his eyes,

no false hair, no artificialcalves; he was neither knock-kneed nor
bandy-legged, his dorsal column was straight, his waist slender, his

hands white and shapely. His hair was black; he was of a complexion
neither too pink, like a grocer's assistant, nor yet too brown, like a

Calabrese. Finally, and this is an essential point, Beaudenord was not
too handsome, like some of our friends that look rather too much of

professional beauties to be anything else; but no more of that; we
have said it, it is shocking! Well, he was a crack shot, and sat a

horse to admiration; he had fought a duel for a trifle, and had not
killed his man.

"If you wish to know in what pure, complete, and unadulterated
happiness consists in this Nineteenth Century in Paris--the happiness,

that is to say, of a young man of twenty-six--do you realize that you
must enter into the infinitely small details of existence?

Beaudenord's bootmaker had precisely hit off his style of foot; he was
well shod; his tailor loved to clothe him. Godefroid neither rolled

his r's, nor lapsed into Normanisms nor Gascon; he spoke pure and
correct French, and tied his cravatcorrectly (like Finot). He had

neither father nor mother--such luck had he!--and his guardian was the
Marquis d'Aiglemont, his cousin by marriage. He could go among city

people as he chose, and the Faubourg Saint-Germain could make no
objection; for, fortunately, a young bachelor is allowed to make his

own pleasure his sole rule of life, he is at liberty to betake himself
whereveramusement is to be found, and to shun the gloomy places where

cares flourish and multiply. Finally, he had been vaccinated (you know
what I mean, Blondet).

"And yet, in spite of all these virtues," continued Bixiou, "he might
very well have been a very unhappy young man. Eh! eh! that word

happiness, unhappily, seems to us to mean something absolute, a
delusion which sets so many wiseacres inquiring what happiness is. A

very clever woman said that 'Happiness was where you chose to put
it.' "

"She formulated a dismal truth," said Blondet.
"And a moral," added Finot.

"Double distilled," said Blondet. "Happiness, like Good, like Evil, is
relative. Wherefore La Fontaine used to hope that in the course of

time the damned would feel as much at home in hell as a fish in
water."

"La Fontaine's sayings are known in Philistia!" put in Bixiou.
"Happiness at six-and-twenty in Paris is not the happiness of six-and-

twenty at--say Blois," continued Blondet, taking no notice of the
interruption. "And those that proceed from this text to rail at the

instability of opinion are either knaves or fools for their pains.
Modern medicine, which passed (it is its fairest title to glory) from

a hypothetical to a positive science, through the influence of the
great analytical school of Paris, has proved beyond a doubt that a man

is periodically renewed throughout----"
"New haft, new blade, like Jeannot's knife, and yet you think that he

is still the same man," broke in Bixiou. "So there are several
lozenges in the harlequin's coat that we call happiness; and--well,

there was neither hole nor stain in this Godefroid's costume. A young
man of six-and-twenty, who would be happy in love, who would be loved,

that is to say, not for his blossoming youth, nor for his wit, nor for
his figure, but spontaneously, and not even merely in return for his

own love; a young man, I say, who has found love in the abstract, to
quote Royer-Collard, might yet very possibly find never a farthing in

the purse which She, loving and beloved, embroidered for him; he might
owe rent to his landlord; he might be unable to pay the bootmaker

before mentioned; his very tailor, like France herself, might at last
show signs of disaffection. In short, he might have love and yet be

poor. And poverty spoils a young man's happiness, unless he holds our
transcendental views of the fusion of interests. I know nothing more

wearing than happiness within combined with adversity without. It is
as if you had one leg freezing in the draught from the door, and the

other half-roasted by a brazier--as I have at this moment. I hope to
be understood. Comes there an echo from thy waistcoat-pocket, Blondet?

Between ourselves, let the heart alone, it spoils the intellect.
"Let us resume. Godefroid de Beaudenord was respected by his

tradespeople, for they were paid with tolerable regularity. The witty
woman before quoted--I cannot give her name, for she is still living,

thanks to her want of heart----"
"Who is this?"

"The Marquise d'Espard. She said that a young man ought to live on an
entresol; there should be no sign of domesticity about the place; no

cook, no kitchen, an old manservant to wait upon him, and no pretence
of permanence. In her opinion, any other sort of establishment is bad

form. Godefroid de Beaudenord, faithful to this programme, lodged on
an entresol on the Quai Malaquais; he had, however, been obliged to

have this much in common with married couples, he had put a bedstead
in his room, though for that matter it was so narrow that he seldom

slept in it. An Englishwoman might have visited his rooms and found
nothing 'improper' there. Finot, you have yet to learn the great law

of the 'Improper' that rules Britain. But, for the sake of the bond
between us--that bill for a thousand francs--I will just give you some