s 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 even