social academician. It's pitiable! The old bachelor whose property the
heirs are waiting for, who fights to his last breath with his nurse

for a spoonful of drink, is blest in comparison with a married man.
I'm not speaking of all that will happen to annoy, bore, irritate,

coerce, oppose, tyrannize, narcotize, paralyze, and idiotize a man in
marriage, in that struggle of two beings always in one another's

presence, bound forever, who have coupled each other under the strange
impression that they were suited. No, to tell you those things would

be merely a repetition of Boileau, and we know him by heart. Still,
I'll forgive your absurd idea if you will promise me to marry "en

grand seigneur"; to entail your property; to have two legitimate
children, to give your wife a house and household absolutely distinct

from yours; to meet her only in society, and never to return from a
journey without sending her a courier to announce it. Two hundred

thousand francs a year will suffice for such a life and your
antecedents will enable you to marry some rich English woman hungry

for a title. That's an aristocratic life which seems to me thoroughly
French; the only life in which we can retain the respect and

friendship of a woman; the only life which distinguishes a man from
the present crowd,--in short, the only life for which a young man

should even think of resigning his bachelor blessings. Thus
established, the Comte de Manerville may advise his epoch, place

himself above the world, and be nothing less than a minister or an
ambassador. Ridicule can never touch him; he has gained the social

advantages of marriage while keeping all the privileges of a
bachelor."

"But, my good friend, I am not de Marsay; I am plainly, as you
yourself do me the honor to say, Paul de Manerville, worthy father and

husband, deputy of the Centre, possibly peer of France,--a destiny
extremely commonplace; but I am modest and I resign myself."

"Yes, but your wife," said the pitiless de Marsay, "will she resign
herself?"

"My wife, my dear fellow, will do as I wish."
"Ah! my poor friend, is that where you are? Adieu, Paul. Henceforth, I

refuse to respect you. One word more, however, for I cannot agree
coldly to your abdication. Look and see in what the strength of our

position lies. A bachelor with only six thousand francs a year
remaining to him has at least his reputation for elegance and the

memory of success. Well, even that fantastic shadow has enormous value
in it. Life still offers many chances to the unmarried man. Yes, he

can aim at anything. But marriage, Paul, is the social 'Thus far shalt
thou go and no farther.' Once married you can never be anything but

what you then are--unless your wife should deign to care for you."
"But," said Paul, "you are crushing me down with exceptional theories.

I am tired of living for others; of having horses merely to exhibit
them; of doing all things for the sake of what may be said of them; of

wasting my substance to keep fools from crying out: 'Dear, dear! Paul
is still driving the same carriage. What has he done with his fortune?

Does he squander it? Does he gamble at the Bourse? No, he's a
millionaire. Madame such a one is mad about him. He sent to England

for a harness which is certainly the handsomest in all Paris. The
four-horse equipages of Messieurs de Marsay and de Manerville were

much noticed at Longchamps; the harness was perfect'--in short, the
thousand silly things with which a crowd of idiots lead us by the

nose. Believe me, my dear Henri, I admire your power, but I don't envy
it. You know how to judge of life; you think and act as a statesman;

you are able to place yourself above all ordinary laws, received
ideas, adopted conventions, and acknowledged prejudices; in short, you

can grasp the profits of a situation in which I should find nothing
but ill-luck. Your cool, systematic, possibly true deductions are, to

the eyes of the masses, shockingly immoral. I belong to the masses. I
must play my game of life according to the rules of the society in

which I am forced to live. While putting yourself above all human
things on peaks of ice, you still have feelings; but as for me, I

should freeze to death. The life of that great majority, to which I
belong in my commonplace way, is made up of emotions of which I now

have need. Often a man coquets with a dozen women and obtains none.
Then, whatever be his strength, his cleverness, his knowledge of the

world, he undergoes convulsions, in which he is crushed as between two
gates. For my part, I like the peaceful chances and changes of life; I

want that wholesomeexistence in which we find a woman always at our
side."

"A trifle indecorous, your marriage!" exclaimed de Marsay.
Paul was not to be put out of countenance, and continued: "Laugh if

you like; I shall feel myself a happy man when my valet enters my room
in the morning and says: 'Madame is awaitingmonsieur for breakfast';

happier still at night, when I return to find a heart--"
"Altogether indecorous, my dear Paul. You are not yet moral enough to

marry."
"--a heart in which to confide my interests and my secrets. I wish to

live in such close union with a woman that our affection shall not
depend upon a yes or a no, or be open to the disillusions of love. In

short, I have the necessary courage to become, as you say, a worthy
husband and father. I feel myself fitted for family joys; I wish to

put myself under the conditions prescribed by society; I desire to
have a wife and children."

"You remind me of a hive of honey-bees! But go your way, you'll be a
dupe all your life. Ha, ha! you wish to marry to have a wife! In other

words, you wish to solve satisfactorily to your own profit the most
difficult problem invented by those bourgeois morals which were

created by the French Revolution; and, what is more, you mean to begin
your attempt by a life of retirement. Do you think your wife won't

crave the life you say you despise? Will SHE be disgusted with it, as
you are? If you won't accept the noble conjugality just formulated for

your benefit by your friend de Marsay, listen, at any rate, to his
final advice. Remain a bachelor for the next thirteen years; amuse

yourself like a lost soul; then, at forty, on your first attack of
gout, marry a widow of thirty-six. Then you may possibly be happy. If

you now take a young girl to wife, you'll die a madman."
"Ah ca! tell me why!" cried Paul, somewhat piqued.

"My dear fellow," replied de Marsay, "Boileau's satire against women
is a tissue of poeticalcommonplaces. Why shouldn't women have

defects? Why condemn them for having the most obvious thing in human
nature? To my mind, the problem of marriage is not at all at the point

where Boileau puts it. Do you suppose that marriage is the same thing
as love, and that being a man suffices to make a wife love you? Have

you gathered nothing in your boudoir experience but pleasant memories?
I tell you that everything in our bachelor life leads to fatal errors

in the married man unless he is a profoundobserver of the human
heart. In the happy days of his youth a man, by the caprice of our

customs, is always lucky; he triumphs over women who are all ready to
be triumphed over and who obey their own desires. One thing after

another--the obstacles created by the laws, the sentiments and natural
defences of women--all engender a mutuality of sensations which

deceives superficial persons as to their future relations in marriage,
where obstacles no longer exist, where the wife submits to love

instead of permitting it, and frequently repulses pleasure instead of
desiring it. Then, the whole aspect of a man's life changes. The

bachelor, who is free and without a care, need never fear repulsion;
in marriage, repulsion is almost certain and irreparable. It may be

possible for a lover to make a woman reverse an unfavorable decision,
but such a change, my dear Paul, is the Waterloo of husbands. Like

Napoleon, the husband is thenceforthcondemned to victories which, in
spite of their number, do not prevent the first defeat from crushing

him. The woman, so flattered by the perseverance, so delighted with
the ardor of a lover, calls the same things brutality in a husband.

You, who talk of marrying, and who will marry, have you ever meditated
on the Civil Code? I myself have never muddied my feet in that hovel

of commentators, that garret of gossip, called the Law-school. I have
never so much as opened the Code; but I see its application on the

vitals of society. The Code, my dear Paul, makes woman a ward; it
considers her a child, a minor. Now how must we govern children? By

fear. In that one word, Paul, is the curb of the beast. Now, feel your
own pulse! Have you the strength to play the tyrant,--you, so gentle,