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Updated: May 21, 2025
"Let the marquis say what he thinks," cried Rastignac. "When a man has been thrown by a fine horse he thinks it has vices and he sells it." Piqued by these words, the Marquis d'Esgrignon looked at d'Arthez and said: "Monsieur is not, I trust, on such terms with the princess that we cannot speak freely of her?" D'Arthez kept silence.
"You will need a lot of capital," continued Lucien. "No, only devotion," said d'Arthez. "Anybody might take him for a perfumer's assistant," burst out Michel Chrestien, looking at Lucien's head, and sniffing comically. "You were seen driving about in a very smart turnout with a pair of thoroughbreds, and a mistress for a prince, Coralie herself." "Well, and is there any harm in it?"
"Do you not know me?" he asked, turning very pale. Michel spat in his face. "Take that as your wages for your article against d'Arthez. If everybody would do as I do on his own or his friend's behalf, the press would be as it ought to be a self-respecting and respected priesthood." Lucien staggered back and caught hold of Rastignac.
These words, breathed into the ear of the listener, in tones inaudible to the other guests, and with accents worthy of the cleverest actress, were calculated to reach the heart; and they did reach that of d'Arthez. There was no question of himself in the matter; this woman was seeking to rehabilitate herself in favor of the dead.
D'Arthez allowed love to enter his heart after the manner of my Uncle Toby, without making the slightest resistance; he proceeded by adoration without criticism, and by exclusive admiration.
"From what Meyraux has been telling us, recovery seems impossible," answered Bianchon. "Medicine has no power over the change that is working in his brain." "Yet there are physical means," said d'Arthez. "Yes," said Bianchon; "we might produce imbecility instead of catalepsy." "Is there no way of offering another head to the spirit of evil? I would give mine to save him!" cried Michel Chrestien.
It is rare that a man passes without remorse from the position of confidant to that of rival, and d'Arthez was free to do so without dishonor. He had suddenly, in a moment, perceived the enormous differences existing between a well-bred woman, that flower of the great world, and common women, though of the latter he did not know beyond one specimen.
A favor is only for strangers, and to my mind you and I seem old friends; I see in you the brother of Michel." D'Arthez could only press her arm, unable to make other reply. After coffee was served, Diane de Cadignan wrapped herself, with coquettish motions, in a large shawl, and rose.
D'Arthez again kissed the hand of that saintly woman who, having hacked her mother in pieces, and turned the Prince de Cadignan into an Othello, now proceeded to accuse herself in order to appear in the eyes of that innocent great man as immaculate as the silliest or the wisest of women desire to seem at all costs to their lovers.
Perhaps, amid all his troubles, this step cost him most cruel suffering. Lousteau was not to be found in the Rue de la Harpe. Hunted down like a hare, he was lodging now with this friend, now with that. Lucien found him at last at Flicoteaux's; he was sitting at the very table at which Lucien had found him that evening when, for his misfortune, he forsook d'Arthez for journalism.
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