Diderot, is a human
formula that is almost inconceivable, but which has nevertheless been
known as Pericles, Aristotle, Voltaire, and Napoleon. The splendor of
the Imperial crown must not blind us to the merits of the individual;
the Emperor was charming, well informed, and witty.

Monsieur de Nucingen, a banker and nothing more, having no inventiveness
outside his business, like most bankers, had no faith in anything but
sound security. In matters of art he had the good sense to go, cash
in hand, to experts in every branch, and had recourse to the best
architect, the best surgeon, the greatest connoisseur in pictures or
statues, the cleverest lawyer, when he wished to build a house, to
attend to his health, to purchase a work of art or an estate. But as
there are no recognized experts in intrigue, no connoisseurs in love
affairs, a banker finds himself in difficulties when he is in love, and
much puzzled as to the management of a woman. So Nucingen could think
of no better method than that he had hitherto pursued--to give a sum of
money to some Frontin, male or female, to act and think for him.

Madame de Saint-Esteve alone could carry out the plan imagined by the
Baroness. Nucingen bitterly regretted having quarreled with the odious
old clothes-seller. However, feeling confident of the attractions of his
cash-box and the soothing documents signed Garat, he rang for his man
and told him in inquire for the repulsive widow in the Rue Saint-Marc,
and desire her to come to see him.

In Paris extremes are made to meet by passion. Vice is constantly
binding the rich to the poor, the great to the mean. The Empress
consults Mademoiselle Lenormand; the fine gentleman in every age can
always find a Ramponneau.

The man returned within two hours.

"Monsieur le Baron," said he, "Madame de Saint-Esteve is ruined."

"Ah! so much de better!" cried the Baron in glee. "I shall hafe her safe
den."

"The good woman is given to gambling, it would seem," the valet went
on. "And, moreover, she is under the thumb of a third-rate actor in a
suburban theatre, whom, for decency's sake, she calls her godson. She is
a first-rate cook, it would seem, and wants a place."

"Dose teufel of geniuses of de common people hafe alvays ten vays of
making money, and ein dozen vays of spending it," said the Baron to
himself, quite unconscious that Panurge had thought the same thing.

He sent his servant off in quest of Madame de Saint-Esteve, who