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watched me in some alarm。
〃 'I am going to leave you； dear Pauline。'
〃 'I knew it！' she exclaimed。
〃 'Listen； my child。 I have not given up the idea of coming back。 Keep
my room for me for six months。 If I do not return by the fifteenth of
November； you will come into possession of my things。 This sealed
packet of manuscript is the fair copy of my great work on 〃The
Will；〃 ' I went on； pointing to a package。 'Will you deposit it in the
King's Library？ And you may do as you wish with everything that is
left here。'
〃Her look weighed heavily on my heart； Pauline was an embodiment of
conscience there before me。
〃 'I shall have no more lessons；' she said； pointing to the piano。
〃I did not answer that。
〃 'Will you write to me？'
〃 'Good…bye； Pauline。'
〃I gently drew her towards me； and set a kiss on that innocent fair
brow of hers； like snow that has not yet touched the eartha father's
or a brother's kiss。 She fled。 I would not see Madame Gaudin； hung my
key in its wonted place； and departed。 I was almost at the end of the
Rue de Cluny when I heard a woman's light footstep behind me。
〃 'I have embroidered this purse for you；' Pauline said； 'will you
refuse even that？'
〃By the light of the street lamp I thought I saw tears in Pauline's
eyes； and I groaned。 Moved perhaps by a common impulse； we parted in
haste like people who fear the contagion of the plague。
〃As I waited with dignified calmness for Rastignac's return； his room
seemed a grotesque interpretation of the sort of life I was about to
enter upon。 The clock on the chimney…piece was surmounted by a Venus
resting on her tortoise； a half…smoked cigar lay in her arms。 Costly
furniture of various kindslove tokens； very likelywas scattered
about。 Old shoes lay on a luxurious sofa。 The comfortable armchair
into which I had thrown myself bore as many scars as a veteran； the
arms were gnashed； the back was overlaid with a thick； stale deposit
of pomade and hair…oil from the heads of all his visitors。 Splendor
and squalor were oddly mingled； on the walls； the bed； and everywhere。
You might have thought of a Neapolitan palace and the groups of
lazzaroni about it。 It was the room of a gambler or a mauvais sujet；
where the luxury exists for one individual； who leads the life of the
senses and does not trouble himself over inconsistencies。
〃There was a certain imaginative element about the picture it
presented。 Life was suddenly revealed there in its rags and spangles
as the incomplete thing it really is； of course； but so vividly and
picturesquely； it was like a den where a brigand has heaped up all the
plunder in which he delights。 Some pages were missing from a copy of
Byron's poems： they had gone to light a fire of a few sticks for this
young person； who played for stakes of a thousand francs； and had not
a faggot； he kept a tilbury； and had not a whole shirt to his back。
Any day a countess or an actress or a run of luck at ecarte might set
him up with an outfit worthy of a king。 A candle had been stuck into
the green bronze sheath of a vestaholder； a woman's portrait lay
yonder； torn out of its carved gold setting。 How was it possible that
a young man； whose nature craved excitement； could renounce a life so
attractive by reason of its contradictions； a life that afforded all
the delights of war in the midst of peace？ I was growing drowsy when
Rastignac kicked the door open and shouted：
〃 'Victory！ Now we can take our time about dying。'
〃He held out his hat filled with gold to me； and put it down on the
table； then we pranced round it like a pair of cannibals about to eat
a victim； we stamped； and danced； and yelled； and sang； we gave each
other blows fit to kill an elephant； at sight of all the pleasures of
the world contained in that hat。
〃 'Twenty…seven thousand francs；' said Rastignac； adding a few bank…
notes to the pile of gold。 'That would be enough for other folk to
live upon； will it be sufficient for us to die on？ Yes！ we will
breathe our last in a bath of goldhurrah！' and we capered afresh。
〃We divided the windfall。 We began with double…napoleons； and came
down to the smaller coins； one by one。 'This for you； this for me；' we
kept saying； distilling our joy drop by drop。
〃 'We won't go to sleep；' cried Rastignac。 'Joseph！ some punch！'
〃He threw gold to his faithful attendant。
〃 'There is your share；' he said； 'go and bury yourself if you can。'
〃Next day I went to Lesage and chose my furniture； took the rooms that
you know in the Rue Taitbout； and left the decoration to one of the
best upholsterers。 I bought horses。 I plunged into a vortex of
pleasures； at once hollow and real。 I went in for play； gaining and
losing enormous sums； but only at friends' houses and in ballrooms；
never in gaming…houses； for which I still retained the holy horror of
my early days。 Without meaning it； I made some friends； either through
quarrels or owing to the easy confidence established among those who
are going to the bad together； nothing； possibly； makes us cling to
one another so tightly as our evil propensities。
〃I made several ventures in literature； which were flatteringly
received。 Great men who followed the profession of letters； having
nothing to fear from me； belauded me； not so much on account of my
merits as to cast a slur on those of their rivals。
〃I became a 'free…liver；' to make use of the picturesque expression
appropriated by the language of excess。 I made it a point of honor not
to be long about dying； and that my zeal and prowess should eclipse
those displayed by all others in the jolliest company。 I was always
spruce and carefully dressed。 I had some reputation for cleverness。
There was no sign about me of the fearful way of living which makes a
man into a mere disgusting apparatus； a funnel； a pampered beast。
〃Very soon Debauch rose before me in all the majesty of its horror；
and I grasped all that it meant。 Those prudent； steady…going
characters who are laying down wine in bottles for their heirs； can
barely conceive； it is true； of so wide a theory of life； nor
appreciate its normal condition； but when will you instill poetry into
the provincial intellect？ Opium and tea； with all their delights； are
merely drugs to folk of that calibre。
〃Is not the imperfect sybarite to be met with even in Paris itself；
that intellectual metropolis？ Unfit to endure the fatigues of
pleasure； this sort of person； after a drinking bout； is very much
like those worthy bourgeois who fall foul of music after hearing a new
opera by Rossini。 Does he not renounce these courses in the same frame
of mind that leads an abstemious man to forswear Ruffec pates； because
the first one； forsooth； gave him the indigestion？
〃Debauch is as surely an art as poetry； and is not for craven spirits。
To penetrate its mysteries and appreciate its charms； conscientious
application is required； and as with every path of knowledge； the way
is thorny and forbidding at the outset。 The great pleasures of
humanity are hedged about with formidable obstacles； not its single
enjoyments； but enjoyment as a system； a system which establishes
seldom experienced sensations and makes them habitual； which
concentrates and multiplies them for us； creating a dramatic life
within our life； and imperatively demanding a prompt and enormous
expenditure of vitality。 War； Power； Art； like Debauch； are all forms
of demoralization； equally remote from the faculties of humanity；
equally profound； and all are alike difficult of access。 But when man
has once stormed the heights of these grand mysteries； does he not
walk in another world？ Are not generals； ministers； and artists
carried； more or less； towards destruction by the need of violent
distractions in an existence so remote from ordinary life as theirs？
〃War； after all； is the Excess of bloodshed； as the Excess of self…
interest produces Politics。 Excesses of every sort are brothers。 These
social enormities possess the attraction of the abyss； they draw
towards themselves as St。 Helena beckoned Napoleon； we are fascinated；
our heads swim； we wish to sound their depths though we cannot account
for the wish。 Perhaps the thought of Infinity dwells in these
precipices； perhaps they contain some colossal flattery for the soul
of man； for is he not； then； wholly absorbed in himself？
〃The wearied artist needs a complete contrast to his paradise of
imaginings and of studious hours； he either craves； like God； the
seventh day of rest； or with Satan； the pleasures of hell； so that his
senses may have free play in opposition to the employment of his
faculties。 Byron could never have taken for his relaxation to the
independent gentleman's delights of boston and gossip； for he was a
poet； and so must needs pit Greece against Mahmoud。
〃In war； is not man an angel of extirpation； a sort of