n 1828, at about one o’clock one morning, two persons came out of
a large house in the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore, near the
Elysee-Bourbon. One was the famous doctor, Horace Bianchon; the other
was one of the most elegant men in Paris, the Baron de Rastignac;
they were friends of long standing. Each had sent away his carriage,
and no cab was to be seen in the street; but the night was fine, and
the pavement dry.
“We will walk as far as the boulevard,” said Eugene de Rastignac to
Bianchon. “You can get a hackney cab at the club; there is always one
to be found there till daybreak. Come with me as far as my house.”
“With pleasure.”
“Well, and what have you to say about it?”
“About that woman?” said the doctor coldly.
“There I recognize my Bianchon!” exclaimed Rastignac.
“Why, how?”
“Well, my dear fellow, you speak of the Marquise d’Espard as if she
were a case for your hospital.”
“Do you want to know what I think, Eugene? If you throw over Madame de
Nucingen for this Marquise, you will swap a one-eyed horse for a blind
one.”
“Madame de Nucingen is six-and-thirty, Bianchon.”
“And this woman is three-and-thirty,” said the doctor quickly.
“Her worst enemies only say six-and-twenty.”
“My dear boy, when you really want to know a woman’s age, look at her
temples and the tip of her nose. Whatever women may achieve with their
cosmetics, they can do nothing against those incorruptible witnesses
to their experiences. There each year of life has left its stigmata.
When a woman’s temples are flaccid, seamed, withered in a particular
way; when at the tip of her nose you see those minute specks, which
look like the imperceptible black smuts which are shed in London by
the chimneys in which coal is burnt. . . . Your servant, sir! That
woman is more than thirty. She may be handsome, witty, loving—whatever you please, but she is past thirty, she is arriving at
maturity. I do not blame men who attach themselves to that kind of
woman; only, a man of your superior distinction must not mistake a
winter pippin for a little summer apple, smiling on the bough, and
waiting for you to crunch it. Love never goes to study the registers
of birth and marriage; no one loves a woman because she is handsome or
ugly, stupid or clever; we love because we love.”
“Well, for my part, I love for quite other reasons. She is Marquise
d’Espard; she was a Blamont-Chauvry; she is the fashion; she has soul;
her foot is as pretty as the Duchesse de Berri’s; she has perhaps a
hundred thousand francs a year—some day, perhaps, I may marry her! In
short, she will put me into a position which will enable me to pay my
debts.”
“I thought you were rich,” interrupted Bianchon.
“Bah! I have twenty thousand francs a year—just enough to keep up my
stables. I was thoroughly done, my dear fellow, in that Nucingen
business; I will tell you about that.—I have got my sisters married;
that is the clearest profit I can show since we last met; and I would
rather have them provided for than have five hundred thousand francs a
year. No, what would you have me do? I am ambitious. To what can
Madame de Nucingen lead? A year more and I shall be shelved, stuck in
a pigeon-hole like a married man. I have all the discomforts of
marriage and of single life, without the advantages of either; a false
position to which every man must come who remains tied too long to the
same apron-string.”
“So you think you will come upon a treasure here?” said Bianchon.
“Your Marquise, my dear fellow, does not hit my fancy at all.”
“Your liberal opinions blur your eyesight. If Madame d’Espard were a
Madame Rabourdin . . .”
“Listen to me. Noble or simple, she would still have no soul; she
would still be a perfect type of selfishness. Take my word for it,
medical men are accustomed to judge of people and things; the sharpest
of us read the soul while we study the body. In spite of that pretty
boudoir where we have spent this evening, in spite of the magnificence
of the house, it is quite possible that Madame la Marquise is in
debt.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I do not assert it; I am supposing. She talked of her soul as Louis
XVIII. used to talk of his heart. I tell you this: That fragile, fair
woman, with her chestnut hair, who pities herself that she may be
pitied, enjoys an iron constitution, an appetite like a wolf’s, and
the strength and cowardice of a tiger. Gauze, and silk, and muslin
were never more cleverly twisted round a lie! Ecco.”
“Bianchon, you frighten me! You have learned a good many things, then,
since we lived in the Maison Vauquer?”
“Yes, since then, my boy, I have seen puppets, both dolls and
manikins. I know something of the ways of the fine ladies whose bodies
we attend to, saving that which is dearest to them, their child—if
they love it—or their pretty faces, which they always worship. A man
spends his nights by their pillow, wearing himself to death to spare
them the slightest loss of beauty in any part; he succeeds, he keeps
their secret like the dead; they send to ask for his bill, and think
it horribly exorbitant. Who saved them? Nature. Far from recommending
him, they speak ill of him, fearing lest he should become the
physician of their best friends.
“My dear fellow, those women of whom you say, ‘They are angels!’ I—I—have seen stripped of the little grimaces under which they hide
their soul, as well as of the frippery under which they disguise their
defects—without manners and without stays; they are not beautiful.
“We saw a great deal of mud, a great deal of dirt, under the waters of
the world when we were aground for a time on the shoals of the Maison
Vauquer.—What we saw there was nothing. Since I have gone into high
society, I have seen monsters dressed in satin, Michonneaus in white
gloves, Poirets bedizened with orders, fine gentlemen doing more
usurious business than old Gobseck! To the shame of mankind, when I
have wanted to shake hands with Virtue, I have found her shivering in
a loft, persecuted by calumny, half-starving on a income or a salary
of fifteen hundred francs a year, and regarded as crazy, or eccentric,
or imbecile.
“In short, my dear boy, the Marquise is a woman of fashion, and I have
a particular horror of that kind of woman. Do you want to know why? A
woman who has a lofty soul, fine taste, gentle wit, a generously warm
heart, and who lives a simple life, has not a chance of being the
fashion. Ergo: A woman of fashion and a man in power are analogous;
but there is this difference: the qualities by which a man raises
himself above others ennoble him and are a glory to him; whereas the
qualities by which a woman gains power for a day are hideous vices;
she belies her nature to hide her character, and to live the militant
life of the world she must have iron strength under a frail
appearance.
“I, as a physician, know that a sound stomach excludes a good heart.
Your woman of fashion feels nothing; her rage for pleasure has its
source in a longing to heat up her cold nature, a craving for
excitement and enjoyment, like an old man who stands night after night
by the footlights at the opera. As she has more brain than heart, she
sacrifices genuine passion and true friends to her triumph, as a
general sends his most devoted subalterns to the front in order to win
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
struggling with the tempests on the surface, till I sink and go to ask
you for a corner in your grotto, old fellow!”
“Till Saturday,” replied Bianchon.
“Agreed,” said Rastignac. “And you promise me Popinot?”
“I will do all my conscience will allow. Perhaps this appeal for a
commission covers some little dramorama, to use a word of our good bad
times.”
“Poor Bianchon! he will never be anything but a good fellow,” said
Rastignac to himself as the cab drove off.
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