“I’m your friend, as you know, my old Paul,” said de Marsay, after a moment’s silence, “and I say to you:  settle down into a worthy father and husband and you’ll be ridiculous for the rest of your days.  If you could be happy and ridiculous, the thing might be thought of; but you will not be happy.  You haven’t a strong enough wrist to drive a household.  I’ll do you justice and say you are a perfect horseman; no one knows as well as you how to pick up or thrown down the reins, and make a horse prance, and sit firm to the saddle.  But, my dear fellow, marriage is another thing.  I see you now, led along at a slapping pace by Madame la Comtesse de Manerville, going whither you would not, oftener at a gallop than a trot, and presently unhorsed!—­yes, unhorsed into a ditch and your legs broken.  Listen to me.  You still have some forty-odd thousand francs a year from your property in the Gironde.  Good.  Take your horses and servants and furnish your house in Bordeaux; you can be king of Bordeaux, you can promulgate there the edicts that we put forth in Paris; you can be the correspondent of our stupidities.  Very good.  Play the rake in the provinces; better still, commit follies; follies may win you celebrity.  But—­don’t marry.  Who marries now-a-days?  Only merchants, for the sake of their capital, or to be two to drag the cart; only peasants who want to produce children to work for them; only brokers and notaries who want a wife’s ‘dot’ to pay for their practice; only miserable kings who are forced to continue their miserable dynasties.  But we are exempt from the pack, and you want to shoulder it!  And why do you want to marry?  You ought to give your best friend your reasons.  In the first place, if you marry an heiress as rich as yourself, eighty thousand francs a year for two is not the same thing as forty thousand francs a year for one, because the two are soon three or four when the children come.  You haven’t surely any love for that silly race of Manerville which would only hamper you?  Are you ignorant of what a father and mother have to be?  Marriage, my old Paul, is the silliest of all the social immolations; our children alone profit by it, and don’t know its price until their horses are nibbling the flowers on our grave.  Do you regret your father, that old tyrant who made your first years wretched?  How can you be sure that your children will love you?  The very care you take of their education, your precautions for their happiness, your necessary sternness will lessen their affection.  Children love a weak or a prodigal father, whom they will despise in after years.  You’ll live betwixt fear and contempt.  No man is a good head of a family merely because he wants to be.  Look round on all our friends and name to me one whom you would like to have for a son.  We have known a good many who dishonor their names.  Children, my dear Paul, are the most difficult kind of merchandise to take care of.  Yours, you think, will be angels; well, so be it!  Have you ever