devotion is nearly akin to speculation.

"And, then, a woman of fashion, a Blamont-Chauvry, has her virtues
too! Her virtues are fortune, power, effect, a certain contempt of all
that is beneath her----"

"Thank you!" said Bianchon.

"Old curmudgeon!" said Rastignac, laughing. "Come--do not be so
common, do like your friend Desplein; be a Baron, a Knight of
Saint-Michael; become a peer of France, and marry your daughters
to dukes."

"I! May the five hundred thousand devils----"

"Come, come! Can you be superior only in medicine? Really, you
distress me . . ."

"I hate that sort of people; I long for a revolution to deliver us
from them for ever."

"And so, my dear Robespierre of the lancet, you will not go to-morrow
to your uncle Popinot?"

"Yes, I will," said Bianchon; "for you I would go to hell to fetch
water . . ."

"My good friend, you really touch me. I have sworn that a commission
shall sit on the Marquis. Why, here is even a long-saved tear to thank
you."