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
commissionshall 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