resent crowd,--in
short, the only life for which a young man should even think of
resigning his bachelor blessings. Thus established, the Comte de
Manerville may advise his epoch, place himself above the world, and be
nothing less than a minister or an ambassador. Ridicule can never touch
him; he has gained the social advantages of marriage while keeping all
the privileges of a bachelor."

"But, my good friend, I am not de Marsay; I am plainly, as you yourself
do me the honor to say, Paul de Manerville, worthy father and husband,
deputy of the Centre, possibly peer of France,--a destiny extremely
commonplace; but I am modest and I resign myself."

"Yes, but your wife," said the pitiless de Marsay, "will she resign
herself?"

"My wife, my dear fellow, will do as I wish."

"Ah! my poor friend, is that where you are? Adieu, Paul. Henceforth, I
refuse to respect you. One word more, however, for I cannot agree coldly
to your abdication. Look and see in what the strength of our position
lies. A bachelor with only six thousand francs a year remaining to him
has at least his reputation for elegance and the memory of success.
Well, even that fantastic shadow has enormous value in it. Life still
offers many chances to the unmarried man. Yes, he can aim at anything.
But marriage, Paul, is the social 'Thus far shalt thou go and no
farther.' Once married you can never be anything but what you then
are--unless your wife should deign to care for you."

"But," said Paul, "you are crushing me down with exceptional theories. I
am tired of living for others; of having horses merely to exhibit them;
of doing all things for the sake of what may be said of them; of wasting
my substance to keep fools from crying out: 'Dear, dear! Paul is still
driving the same carriage. What has he done with his fortune? Does
he squander it? Does he gamble at the Bourse? No, he's a millionaire.
Madame such a one is mad about him. He sent to England for a harness
which is certainly the handsomest in all Paris. The four-horse
equipages of Messieurs de Marsay and de Manerville were much noticed
at Longchamps; the harness was perfect'--in short, the thousand silly
things with which a crowd of idiots lead us by the nose. Believe me, my
dear Henri, I admire your power, but I don't envy it. You know how to
judge of life; you think and act as a statesman; you are able to place
yourself above all ordinary laws, received ideas, adopted conventions,
and acknowledg