(from the answers to his inquiries) have had equal reason to suppose
her a widow or wife, silly or wise, virtuous or the reverse, rich or

pour, soulless or full of feeling, handsome or plain,--in short, there
were as many Madame Firmianis as there are species in society, or

sects in Catholicism. Frightful reflection! we are all like
lithographic blocks, from which an indefinite number of copies can be

drawn by criticism,--the proofs being more or less like us according
to a distribution of shading which is so nearly imperceptible that our

reputation depends (barring the calumnies of friends and the
witticisms of newspapers) on the balance struck by our criticisers

between Truth that limps and Falsehood to which Parisian wit gives
wings.

Madame Firmiani, like other noble and dignified women who make their
hearts a sanctuary and disdain the world, was liable, therefore, to be

totally misjudged by Monsieur de Bourbonne, an old country magnate,
who had reason to think a great deal about her during the winter of

this year. He belonged to the class of provincial Planters, men living
on their estates, accustomed to keep close accounts of everything and

to bargain with the peasantry. Thus employed, a man becomes sagacious
in spite of himself, just as soldiers in the long run acquire courage

from routine. The old gentleman, who had come to Paris from Touraine
to satisfy his curiosity about Madame Firmiani, and found it not at

all assuaged by the Parisian gossip which he heard, was a man of honor
and breeding. His sole heir was a nephew, whom he greatly loved, in

whose interests he planted his poplars. When a man thinks without
annoyance about his heir, and watches the trees grow daily finer for

his future benefit, affection" target="_blank" title="n.友爱；慈爱">affection grows too with every blow of the spade
around her roots. Though this phenomenal feeling is not common, it is

still to be met with in Touraine.
This cherished nephew, named Octave de Camps, was a descendant of the

famous Abbe de Camps, so well known to bibliophiles and learned men,--
who, by the bye, are not at all the same thing. People in the

provinces have the bad habit of branding with a sort of decent
reprobation any young man who sells his inherited estates. This

antiquated prejudice has interfered very much with the stock-jobbing
which the present government encourages for its own interests. Without

consulting his uncle, Octave had lately sold an estate belonging to
him to the Black Band.[*] The chateau de Villaines would have been

pulled down were it not for the remonstrances which the old uncle made
to the representatives of the "Pickaxe company." To increase the old

man's wrath, a distant relative (one of those cousins of small means
and much astuteness about whom shrewdprovincials are wont to remark,

"No lawsuits for me with him!") had, as it were by accident, come to
visit Monsieur de Bourbonne, and INCIDENTALLY informed him of his

nephew's ruin. Monsieur Octave de Camps, he said, having wasted his
means on a certain Madame Firmiani, was now reduced to teaching

mathematics for a living, while awaiting his uncle's death, not daring
to let him know of his dissipations. This distant cousin, a sort of

Charles Moor, was not ashamed to give this fatal news to the old
gentleman as he sat by his fire, digesting a profuse provincial

dinner.
[*] The "Bande Noire" was a mysterious association of speculators,

whose object was to buy in landed estates, cut them up, and sell
them off in small parcels to the peasantry, or others.

But heirs cannot always rid themselves of uncles as easily as they
would like to. Thanks to his obstinacy, this particular uncle refused

to believe the story, and came out victorious from the attack of
indigestion produced by his nephew's biography. Some shocks affect the

heart, others the head; but in this case the cousin's blow fell on the
digestive organs and did little harm, for the old man's stomach was

sound. Like a true disciple of Saint Thomas, Monsieur de Bourbonne
came to Paris, unknown to Octave, resolved to make full inquiries as

to his nephew's insolvency. Having many acquaintances in the faubourg
Saint-Germain, among the Listomeres, the Lenoncourts, and the

Vandenesses, he heard so much gossip, so many facts and falsities,
about Madame Firmiani that he resolved to be presented to her under

the name of de Rouxellay, that of his estate in Touraine. The astute
old gentleman was careful to choose an evening when he knew that

Octave would be engaged in finishing a piece of work which was to pay
him well,--for this so-called lover of Madame Firmiani still went to

her house; a circumstance that seemed difficult to explain. As to
Octave's ruin, that, fortunately" target="_blank" title="ad.不幸；不朽；可惜">unfortunately, was no fable, as Monsieur de

Bourbonne had at once discovered.
Monsieur de Rouxellay was not at all like the provincial uncle at the

Gymnase. Formerly in the King's guard, a man of the world and a
favorite among women, he knew how to present himself in society with

the courteous manners of the olden time; he could make graceful
speeches and understand the whole Charter, or most of it. Though he

loved the Bourbons with noble frankness, believed in God as a
gentleman should, and read nothing but the "Quotidienne," he was not

as ridiculous as the liberals of his department would fain have had
him. He could hold his own in the court circle, provided no one talked

to him of "Moses in Egypt," nor of the drama, or romanticism, or local
color, nor of railways. He himself had never got beyond Monsieur de

Voltaire, Monsieur le Comte de Buffon, Payronnet, and the Chevalier
Gluck, the Queen's favorite musician.

"Madame," he said to the Marquise de Listomere, who was on his arm as
they entered Madame Firmiani's salons, "if this woman is my nephew's

mistress, I pity him. How can she live in the midst of this luxury,
and know that he is in a garret? Hasn't she any soul? Octave is a fool

to have given up such an estate as Villaines for a--"
Monsieur de Bourbonne belonged to the species Fossil, and used the

language of the days of yore.
"But suppose he had lost it at play?"

"Then, madame, he would at least have had the pleasure of gambling."
"And do you think he has had no pleasure here? See! look at Madame

Firmiani."
The brightest memories of the old man faded at the sight of his

nephew's so-calledmistress. His anger died away at the gracious
exclamation which came from his lips as he looked at her. By one of

those fortunate accidents which happen only to pretty women, it was a
moment when all her beauties shone with peculiar lustre, due perhaps

to the wax-lights, to the charmingsimplicity of her dress, to the
ineffable atmosphere of elegance that surrounded her. One must needs

have studied the transitions of an evening in a Parisian salon to
appreciate the imperceptible lights and shades which color a woman's

face and vary it. There comes a moment when, content with her toilet,
pleased with her own wit, delighted to be admired, and feeling herself

the queen of a salon full of remarkable men who smile to her, the
Parisian woman reaches a full consciousness of her grace and charm;

her beauty is enhanced by the looks she gathers in,--a mute homage
which she transfers with subtle glances to the man she loves. At

moments like these a woman is invested with supernatural power and
becomes a magician, a charmer, without herself knowing that she is

one; involuntarily she inspires the love that fills her own bosom; her
smiles and glances fascinate. If this condition, which comes from the

soul, can give attraction even to a plain woman, with what radiance
does it not invest a woman of natural elegance, distinguished bearing,

fair, fresh, with sparkling eyes, and dressed in a taste that wrings
approval from artists and her bitterest rivals.

Have you ever, for your happiness, met a woman whose harmonious voice
gives to her speech the same charm that emanates from her manners? a

woman who knows how to speak and to be silent, whose words are happily
chosen, whose language is pure, and who concerns herself in your

interests with delicacy? Her raillery is caressing, her criticism
never wounds; she neither discourses nor argues, but she likes to lead

a discussion and stop it at the right moment. Her manner is affable
and smiling, her politeness never forced, her readiness to serve

others never servile; she reduces the respect she claims to a soft
shadow; she never wearies you, and you leave her satisfied with her

and with yourself. Her charming grace is conveyed to all the things
with which she surrounds herself. Everything about her pleases the

eye; in her presence you breathe, as it were, your native air. This
woman is natural. There is no effort about her; she is aiming at no

effect; her feelings are shown simply, because they are true. Frank
herself, she does not wound the vanity of others; she accepts men as

God made them; pitying the vicious, forgiving defects and absurdities,
comprehending all ages, and vexed by nothing, because she has had the