that women see and to which they attach a certain meaning which escapes us. You do not know yourself, my dear fellow. With a little steadiness, in six months you would bewitch an Englishwoman with a hundred thousand francs, especially by taking the title of Vicomte de Portenduère to which you have a right. My charming mother-in-law, Lady Dudley, who is without her match in impaling two hearts, will discover her for you in some one of the alluvial grounds of Great Britain. But you must be able and know how to carry over your debts for ninety days by some deft manoeuvre of financial policy. Why did you keep it from me? At Baden, the usurers would have respected you, and perhaps have served you; but, after having put you in prison they despise you. The usurer is like society, like the people, on his knees before a man who is strong enough to laugh at him, and pitiless toward the lambs. In the eyes of certain people, Sainte-Pélagie is a she-devil who madly scorches young men’s souls. Do you want my advice, my dear boy? I should say to you as to little D’Esgrignon: ‘Pay your debts with caution, keeping enough to live upon for three years, and marry in the provinces the first girl who may have thirty thousand francs income. In three years, you will have found some sensible heiress who wants to call herself Madame de Portenduère.’ This is wisdom. So let us drink. I propose this toast: ‘To the girl with cash!’”
The young men did not leave their ex-friend until
