of Paris, has proved beyond a doubt that a man is
periodically renewed throughout----"

"New haft, new blade, like Jeannot's knife, and yet you think that he is
still the same man," broke in Bixiou. "So there are several lozenges
in the harlequin's coat that we call happiness; and--well, there was
neither hole nor stain in this Godefroid's costume. A young man of
six-and-twenty, who would be happy in love, who would be loved, that
is to say, not for his blossoming youth, nor for his wit, nor for his
figure, but spontaneously, and not even merely in return for his own
love; a young man, I say, who has found love in the abstract, to quote
Royer-Collard, might yet very possibly find never a farthing in the
purse which She, loving and beloved, embroidered for him; he might owe
rent to his landlord; he might be unable to pay the bootmaker before
mentioned; his very tailor, like France herself, might at last show
signs of disaffection. In short, he might have love and yet be poor.
And poverty spoils a young man's happiness, unless he holds our
transcendental views of the fusion of interests. I know nothing more
wearing than happiness within combined with adversity without. It is as
if you had one leg freezing in the draught from the door, and the
other half-roasted by a brazier--as I have at this moment. I hope to
be understood. Comes there an echo from thy waistcoat-pocket, Blondet?
Between ourselves, let the heart alone, it spoils the intellect.

"Let us resume. Godefroid de Beaudenord was respected by his
tradespeople, for they were paid with tolerable regularity. The witty
woman before quoted--I cannot give her name, for she is still living,
thanks to her want of heart----"

"Who is this?"

"The Marquise d'Espard. She said that a young man ought to live on an
entresol; there should be no sign of domesticity about the place; no
cook, no kitchen, an old manservant to wait upon him, and no pretence of
permanence. In her opinion, any other sort of establishment is bad
form. Godefroid de Beaudenord, faithful to this programme, lodged on an
entresol on the Quai Malaquais; he had, however, been obliged to have
this much in common with married couples, he had put a bedstead in his
room, though for that matter it was so narrow that he seldom slept
in it. An Englishwoman might have visited his rooms and found nothing
'improper' there. Finot, you have yet to learn the great law of the
'Improper' that rules Britain. But, for the