She took in “La Corbeille,” a lady’s journal, and the “Sylphe des Salons.”  She devoured, without skipping a word, all the accounts of first nights, races, and soirees, took interest in the debut of a singer, in the opening of a new shop.  She knew the latest fashions, the addresses of the best tailors, the days of the Bois and the Opera.  In Eugene Sue she studied descriptions of furniture; she read Balzac and George Sand, seeking in them imaginary satisfaction for her own desires.  Even at table she had her book by her, and turned over the pages while Charles ate and talked to her.  The memory of the Viscount always returned as she read.  Between him and the imaginary personages she made comparisons.  But the circle of which he was the centre gradually widened round him, and the aureole that he bore, fading from his form, broadened out beyond, lighting up her other dreams.

Paris, more vague than the ocean, glimmered before Emma’s eyes in an atmosphere of vermilion.  The many lives that stirred amid this tumult were, however, divided into parts, classed as distinct pictures.  Emma perceived only two or three that hid from her all the rest, and in themselves represented all humanity.  The world of ambassadors moved over polished floors in drawing rooms lined with mirrors, round oval tables covered with velvet and gold-fringed cloths.  There were dresses with trains, deep mysteries, anguish hidden beneath smiles.  Then came the society of the duchesses; all were pale; all got up at four o’clock; the women, poor angels, wore English point on their petticoats; and the men, unappreciated geniuses under a frivolous outward seeming, rode horses to death at pleasure parties, spent the summer season at Baden, and towards the forties married heiresses.  In the private rooms of restaurants, where one sups after midnight by the light of wax candles, laughed the motley crowd of men of letters and actresses.  They were prodigal as kings, full of ideal, ambitious, fantastic frenzy.  This was an existence outside that of all others, between heaven and earth, in the midst of storms, having something of the sublime.  For the rest of the world it was lost, with no particular place and as if non-existent.  The nearer things were, moreover, the more her thoughts turned away from them.  All her immediate surroundings, the wearisome country, the middle-class imbeciles, the mediocrity of existence, seemed to her exceptional, a peculiar chance that had caught hold of her, while beyond stretched, as far as eye could see, an immense land of joys and passions.  She confused in her desire the sensualities of luxury with the delights of the heart, elegance of manners with delicacy of sentiment.  Did not love, like Indian plants, need a special soil, a particular temperature?  Signs by moonlight, long embraces, tears flowing over yielded hands, all the fevers of the flesh and the languors of tenderness could not be separated from the balconies of great castles full of indolence, from boudoirs with silken curtains and thick carpets, well-filled flower-stands, a bed on a raised dias, nor from the flashing of precious stones and the shoulder-knots of liveries.