He had always known that he could “make something of her,” as he used to put it to himself, but she exceeded his expectations; she certainly was an admirable mistress.  Her scruples did not bore him; they were, indeed, a novelty and an excitement which he would not willingly be without.  Moreover, she was so intelligent he had not yet heard her make a stupid remark.  She had always been interested in the right things; and, excited by her admiration of the wooden balconies—­the metal lanterns hanging from them, the vases standing on the steps leading to the porticoes, he attempted a reading of these villas.

“How plain is this paganism,” he said.  “Seeing them, we cannot but think of their deep feather beds, the savoury omelettes made of new-laid eggs served at mid-day, and followed by juicy beefsteaks cooked in the best butter.  Those villas are not only typical of Passy, but of France; their excellent life ascends from the peasant’s cottage; they are the result of agriculture, which is the original loveliness.  All that springs from agriculture must be beautiful, just as all that springs from commerce must be vile.  Manchester is the ugliest place on the earth, and the money of every individual cotton spinner serves to multiply the original ugliness—­the house he builds, the pictures he buys.  Isn’t that so?”

“I can’t say, dear; I have never been to Manchester.  But how can you think of such things?”

“Don’t you like those villas?  I love them, and their comfort is secure; its root is in the earth, the only thing we are sure of.  There is more pagan of life and sentiment in France than elsewhere.  Would you not like to have a Passy villa?  Would you not like to live here?”

“One of these days I may buy one, then you shall come to breakfast, and I’ll give you an omelette and a beefsteak.  For the present, I shall have to put up with something less expensive.  I must be near my music lessons.  Thanks all the same, dearest.”

She sought a reason for the expression of thoughtfulness which had suddenly come over his face.

“I don’t know how it is, but I never see Paris without thinking of Balzac.  You don’t know Balzac; one of these days you must read him.  The moment I begin to notice Paris, I think, feel, see and speak Balzac.  That dark woman yonder, with her scornful face, fills my mind with Balzacian phrases—­the celebrated courtesan, celebrated for her diamonds and her vices, and so on.  The little woman in the next carriage, the Princess de Saxeville, would delight him.  He would devote an entire page to the description of her coat of arms—­three azure panels, and so on.  And I should read it, for Balzac made all the world beautiful, even snobbery.  All interesting people are Balzacians.  The moment I know that a man is an admirer of Balzac, a sort of Freemasonry is established between us, and I am interested in him, as I should be in a man who had loved a woman whom I had loved.”