“Anybody might take him for a perfumer’s assistant,” burst out Michel Chrestien, looking at Lucien’s head, and sniffing comically. “You were seen driving about in a very smart turnout with a pair of thoroughbreds, and a mistress for a prince, Coralie herself.”
“Well, and is there any harm in it?”
“You would not say that if you thought that there was no harm in it,” said Bianchon.
“I could have wished Lucien a Beatrice,” said d’Arthez, “a noble woman, who would have been a help to him in life——”
“But, Daniel,” asked Lucien, “love is love wherever you find it, is it not?”
“Ah!” said the republican member, “on that one point I am an aristocrat. I could not bring myself to love a woman who must rub shoulders with all sorts of people in the green-room; whom an actor kisses on stage; she must lower herself before the public, smile on every one, lift her skirts as she dances, and dress like a man, that all the world may see what none should see save I alone. Or if I loved such a woman, she should leave the stage, and my love should cleanse her from the stain of it.”
“And if she would not leave the stage?”
“I should die of mortification, jealousy, and all sorts of pain. You cannot pluck love out of your heart as you draw a tooth.”
Lucien’s face grew dark and thoughtful.
“When they find out that I am tolerating Camusot, how they will despise me,” he thought.