aced to the depths of the human heart.

Perhaps there are people who know that they have nothing more to look
for from those with whom they live; they have shown the emptiness of
their hearts to their housemates, and in their secret selves they are
conscious that they are severely judged, and that they deserve to
be judged severely; but still they feel an unconquerable craving for
praises that they do not hear, or they are consumed by a desire to
appear to possess, in the eyes of a new audience, the qualities which
they have not, hoping to win the admiration or affection of strangers at
the risk of forfeiting it again some day. Or, once more, there are other
mercenary natures who never do a kindness to a friend or a relation
simply because these have a claim upon them, while a service done to a
stranger brings its reward to self-love. Such natures feel but little
affection for those who are nearest to them; they keep their kindness
for remoter circles of acquaintance, and show most to those who dwell on
its utmost limits. Mme. Vauquer belonged to both these essentially mean,
false, and execrable classes.

"If I had been there at the time," Vautrin would say at the end of the
story, "I would have shown her up, and that misfortune would not have
befallen you. I know that kind of phiz!"

Like all narrow natures, Mme. Vauquer was wont to confine her attention
to events, and did not go very deeply into the causes that brought them
about; she likewise preferred to throw the blame of her own mistakes on
other people, so she chose to consider that the honest vermicelli maker
was responsible for her misfortune. It had opened her eyes, so she said,
with regard to him. As soon as she saw that her blandishments were in
vain, and that her outlay on her toilette was money thrown away, she was
not slow to discover the reason of his indifference. It became plain
to her at once that there was _some other attraction_, to use her own
expression. In short, it was evident that the hope she had so fondly
cherished was a baseless delusion, and that she would "never make
anything out of that man yonder," in the Countess' forcible phrase.
The Countess seemed to have been a judge of character. Mme. Vauquer's
aversion was naturally more energetic than her friendship, for her
hatred was not in proportion to her love, but to her disappointed
expectations. The human heart may find here and there a resting-place
short of the highest height of affec