to their experiences. There each year of life has left its stigmata.
When a woman's temples are flaccid, seamed, withered in a particular
way; when at the tip of her nose you see those minute specks, which
look like the imperceptible black smuts which are shed in London by
the chimneys in which coal is burnt. . . . Your servant, sir! That
woman is more than thirty. She may be handsome, witty, loving
--whatever you please, but she is past thirty, she is arriving at
maturity. I do not blame men who attach themselves to that kind of
woman; only, a man of your superior distinction must not mistake a
winter pippin for a little summer apple, smiling on the bough, and
waiting for you to crunch it. Love never goes to study the registers
of birth and marriage; no one loves a woman because she is handsome or
ugly, stupid or clever; we love because we love."

"Well, for my part, I love for quite other reasons. She is Marquise
d'Espard; she was a Blamont-Chauvry; she is the fashion; she has soul;
her foot is as pretty as the Duchesse de Berri's; she has perhaps a
hundred thousand francs a year--some day, perhaps, I may marry her! In
short, she will put me into a position which will enable me to pay my
debts."

"I thought you were rich," interrupted Bianchon.

"Bah! I have twenty thousand francs a year--just enough to keep up my
stables. I was thoroughly done, my dear fellow, in that Nucingen
business; I will tell you about that.--I have got my sisters married;
that is the clearest profit I can show since we last met; and I would
rather have them provided for than have five hundred thousand francs a
year. No, what would you have me do? I am ambitious. To what can
Madame de Nucingen lead? A year more and I shall be shelved, stuck in