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a battle. The woman of fashion ceases to be a woman; she is neither



mother, nor wife, nor lover. She is, medically speaking, sex in the

brain. And your Marquise, too, has all the characteristics of her



monstrosity, the beak of a bird of prey, the clear, cold eye, the

gentle voice--she is as polished as the steel of a machine, she



touches everything except the heart."

"There is some truth in what you say, Bianchon."



"Some truth?" replied Bianchon. "It is all true. Do you suppose that I

was not struck to the heart by the insulting politeness by which she



made me measure the imaginary distance which her noble birth sets

between us? That I did not feel the deepest pity for her cat-like



civilities when I remembered what her object was? A year hence she

will not write one word to do me the slightest service, and this



evening she pelted me with smiles, believing that I can influence my

uncle Popinot, on whom the success of her case----"



"Would you rather she should have played the fool with you, my dear

fellow?--I accept your diatribe against women of fashion; but you are



beside the mark. I should always prefer for a wife a Marquise d'Espard

to the most devout and devoted creature on earth. Marry an angel! you



would have to go and bury your happiness in the depths of the country!

The wife of a politician is a governing machine, a contrivance that



makes compliments and courtesies. She is the most important and most

faithful tool which an ambitious man can use; a friend, in short, who



may compromise herself without mischief, and whom he may belie without

harmful results. Fancy Mahomet in Paris in the nineteenth century! His



wife would be a Rohan, a Duchesse de Chevreuse of the Fronde, as keen

and as flattering as an Ambassadress, as wily as Figaro. Your loving



wives lead nowhere; a woman of the world leads to everything; she is

the diamond with which a man cuts every window when he has not the



golden key which unlocks every door. Leave humdrum virtues to the

humdrum, ambitious vices to the ambitious.



"Besides, my dear fellow, do you imagine that the love of a Duchesse

de Langeais, or de Maufrigneuse, or of a Lady Dudley does not bestow



immense pleasure? If only you knew how much value the cold, severe

style of such a woman gives to the smallest evidence of their



affection! What a delight it is to see a periwinkle piercing through

the snow! A smile from below a fan contradicts the reserve of an



assumed attitude, and is worth all the unbridled tenderness of your

middle-class women with their mortgaged devotion; for, in love,



devotion is nearly akin to speculation.

"And, then, a woman of fashion, a Blamont-Chauvry, has her virtues



too! Her virtues are fortune, power, effect, a certain contempt of all

that is beneath her----"



"Thank you!" said Bianchon.

"Old curmudgeon!" said Rastignac, laughing. "Come--do not be so



common, do like your friend Desplein; be a Baron, a Knight of Saint-

Michael; become a peer of France, and marry your daughters to dukes."



"I! May the five hundred thousand devils----"

"Come, come! Can you be superior only in medicine? Really, you



distress me . . ."

"I hate that sort of people; I long for a revolution to deliver us



from them for ever."

"And so, my dear Robespierre of the lancet, you will not go to-morrow



to your uncle Popinot?"

"Yes, I will," said Bianchon; "for you I would go to hell to fetch



water . . ."

"My good friend, you really touch me. I have sworn that a commission



shall sit on the Marquis. Why, here is even a long-saved tear to thank

you."



"But," Bianchon went on, "I do not promise to succeed as you wish with

Jean-Jules Popinot. You do not know him. However, I will take him to



see your Marquise the day after to-morrow; she may get round him if

she can. I doubt it. If all the truffles, all the Duchesses, all the



mistresses, and all the charmers in Paris were there in the full bloom

of their beauty; if the King promised him the PRAIRIE, and the



Almighty gave him the Order of Paradise with the revenues of

Purgatory, not one of all these powers would induce him to transfer a



single straw from one saucer of his scales into the other. He is a

judge, as Death is Death."



The two friends had reached the office of the Minister for Foreign

Affairs, at the corner of the Boulevard des Capucines.



"Here you are at home," said Bianchon, laughing, as he pointed to the

ministerial residence. "And here is my carriage," he added, calling a



hackney cab. "And these--express our fortune."

"You will be happy at the bottom of the sea, while I am still






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