Amazed at the brilliant move by which Dinah thus placed provincial life at the mercy of her guests, in anticipation of their sarcasms, Gatien Boirouge nudged Lousteau’s elbow, with a glance and a smile, which said: 

“Well! did I say too much?”

“But, madame,” said Lousteau, “you are proving that we are still in Paris.  I shall steal this gem of description; it will be worth ten thousand francs to me in an article.”

“Oh, monsieur,” she retorted, “never trust provincial women.”

“And why not?” said Lousteau.

Madame de la Baudraye was wily enough—­an innocent form of cunning, to be sure—­to show the two Parisians, one of whom she would choose to be her conquerer, the snare into which he would fall, reflecting that she would have the upper hand at the moment when he should cease to see it.

“When you first come,” said she, “you laugh at us.  Then when you have forgotten the impression of Paris brilliancy, and see us in our own sphere, you pay court to us, if only as a pastime.  And you, who are famous for your past passions, will be the object of attentions which will flatter you.  Then take care!” cried Dinah, with a coquettish gesture, raising herself above provincial absurdities and Lousteau’s irony by her own sarcastic speech.  “When a poor little country-bred woman has an eccentric passion for some superior man, some Parisian who has wandered into the provinces, it is to her something more than a sentiment; she makes it her occupation and part of all her life.  There is nothing more dangerous than the attachment of such a woman; she compares, she studies, she reflects, she dreams; and she will not give up her dream, she thinks still of the man she loves when he has ceased to think of her.

“Now one of the catastrophes that weigh most heavily on a woman in the provinces is that abrupt termination of her passion which is so often seen in England.  In the country, a life under minute observation as keen as an Indian’s compels a woman either to keep on the rails or to start aside like a steam engine wrecked by an obstacle.  The strategies of love, the coquetting which form half the composition of a Parisian woman, are utterly unknown here.”

“That is true,” said Lousteau.  “There is in a country-bred woman’s heart a store of surprises, as in some toys.”

“Dear me!” Dinah went on, “a woman will have spoken to you three times in the course of a winter, and without your knowing it, you will be lodged in her heart.  Then comes a picnic, an excursion, what not, and all is said—­or, if you prefer it, all is done!  This conduct, which seems odd to unobserving persons, is really very natural.  A poet, such as you are, or a philosopher, an observer, like Doctor Bianchon, instead of vilifying the provincial woman and believing her depraved, would be able to guess the wonderful unrevealed poetry, every chapter, in short, of the sweet romance of which the last phrase falls to the benefit of some happy sub-lieutenant or some provincial bigwig.”