“You may perhaps think I go rather too far,” said the bigot to the journalist; “but in giving such a jewel as my Felicie to any man, one must think of the future.  I am not one of those mothers who want to be rid of their daughters.  Monsieur Cardot hurries matters on, urges forward his daughter’s marriage; he wishes it over.  This is the only point on which we differ.—­Though with a man like you, monsieur, a literary man whose youth has been preserved by hard work from the moral shipwreck now so prevalent, we may feel quite safe; still, you would be the first to laugh at me if I looked for a husband for my daughter with my eyes shut.  I know you are not an innocent, and I should be very sorry for my Felicie if you were” (this was said in a whisper); “but if you had any liaison—­For instance, monsieur, you have heard of Madame Roguin, the wife of a notary who, unhappily for our faculty, was sadly notorious.  Madame Roguin has, ever since 1820, been kept by a banker—­”

“Yes, du Tillet,” replied Etienne; but he bit his tongue as he recollected how rash it was to confess to an acquaintance with du Tillet.

“Yes.—­Well, monsieur, if you were a mother, would you not quake at the thought that Madame du Tillet’s fate might be your child’s?  At her age, and nee de Granville!  To have as a rival a woman of fifty and more.  Sooner would I see my daughter dead than give her to a man who had such a connection with a married woman.  A grisette, an actress, you take her and leave her.—­There is no danger, in my opinion, from women of that stamp; love is their trade, they care for no one, one down and another to come on!—­But a woman who has sinned against duty must hug her sin, her only excuse is constancy, if such a crime can ever have an excuse.  At least, that is the view I hold of a respectable woman’s fall, and that is what makes it so terrible——­”

Instead of looking for the meaning of these speeches, Etienne made a jest of them at Malaga’s, whither he went with his father-in-law elect; for the notary and the journalist were the best of friends.

Lousteau had already given himself the airs of a person of importance; his life at last was to have a purpose; he was in luck’s way, and in a few days would be the owner of a delightful little house in the Rue Saint-Lazare; he was going to be married to a charming woman, he would have about twenty thousand francs a year, and could give the reins to his ambition; the young lady loved him, and he would be connected with several respectable families.  In short, he was in full sail on the blue waters of hope.