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Updated: May 16, 2025
He had squandered two fortunes, one after the other, without feeling any regret; he had made a brush at journalism, tried finance, won at the Bourse, lost at the clubs, knew everybody and was known by all, had a smiling lip, was sound of tooth, loved the girls, was dreaded by the men, was of fine appearance, and was unquestionably noble, which permitted him to enjoy all the frolics of Bohemian life without sullying himself, having always discovered a forgotten uncle or met some considerate friend to pay his gambling debts and adjust his differences on the Bourse speculations at the very nick of time; just now he was well in the saddle and decidedly attractive, with a sound heart and a well-lined pocket, enjoying, not disliking life, which seemed to him a term of imprisonment to be passed merrily a Parisian to the finger-tips and to the bottom of his soul, worse than a Parisian in fact, a Parisianized provincial inoculated with Parisine, just as certain sick persons are with morphine, judging men by their wit, actions by their results, women by the size of their gloves; as sceptical as the devil, wicked in speech and considerate in thought, still agile at forty, claiming even that this is man's best time the period of fortune and gallantry sliding along in life and taking things as he found them, wisely considering that a day's snow or rain lasts no longer than a day's sunshine, and that, after all, a wretched night is soon over.
That little Madame d'Ormonde certainly had the devil in her, but above all, a fantastic, baffling brain, through which the most unheard of caprices passed, in which ideas danced and jostled each other, like those pieces of different colored glass in a kaleidoscope, which form such strange figures when they have been shaken, in which Parisine was fermenting to such an extent you know, Parisine, the analysis of which Roqueplan lately gave that the most learned members of The Institute would have wasted his science and his wisdom if he had tried to follow her slips and her subterfuges.
The following morning, Guy de Lissac found in his mail a brief note, sealed with the arms of the duke, with the motto: Hasta la muerte. José wrote to him as he was leaving Paris: "You are perhaps right. I am a little intoxicated with Parisine. I am going to London to visit a friend and if I ever recount my voyages there, it will only be to the serious-minded members of the Geographical Society.
Dreams of power, visions of love of his twentieth year, had now become tangible to him and at forty he stretched out his feverish hand toward them all. "Could Ramel have been right?" he said to himself, "and I, only a provincial, athirst for Parisine? But what matter? Let Mademoiselle Kayser be what she will and I what I may be, it seems to me that I have never loved any one as I love this woman."
What an idea, comparing Paris with absinthe!" "A Parisian's idea, parbleu! You have not been here two days and you are already intoxicated with Parisine, you said so yourself. The hasheesh of the boulevard." "Perhaps it is not Parisine only that has, in fact, affected my brain," said Rosas. "No doubt, it is also the Parisienne. Madame Marsy is very pretty." "Charming," said Rosas coldly.
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