The Commission in Lunacy | Page 4

apron-string."
"So you think you will come upon a treasure here?" said Bianchon.
"Your Marquise, my dear fellow, does not hit my fancy at all."
"Your liberal opinions blur your eyesight. If Madame d'Espard were a
Madame Rabourdin . . ."
"Listen to me. Noble or simple, she would still have no soul; she would
still be a perfect type of selfishness. Take my word for it, medical men
are accustomed to judge of people and things; the sharpest of us read
the soul while we study the body. In spite of that pretty boudoir where
we have spent this evening, in spite of the magnificence of the house, it
is quite possible that Madame la Marquise is in debt."
"What makes you think so?"
"I do not assert it; I am supposing. She talked of her soul as Louis
XVIII. used to talk of his heart. I tell you this: That fragile, fair woman,
with her chestnut hair, who pities herself that she may be pitied, enjoys
an iron constitution, an appetite like a wolf's, and the strength and
cowardice of a tiger. Gauze, and silk, and muslin were never more
cleverly twisted round a lie! Ecco."
"Bianchon, you frighten me! You have learned a good many things,

then, since we lived in the Maison Vauquer?"
"Yes, since then, my boy, I have seen puppets, both dolls and manikins.
I know something of the ways of the fine ladies whose bodies we
attend to, saving that which is dearest to them, their child--if they love
it--or their pretty faces, which they always worship. A man spends his
nights by their pillow, wearing himself to death to spare them the
slightest loss of beauty in any part; he succeeds, he keeps their secret
like the dead; they send to ask for his bill, and think it horribly
exorbitant. Who saved them? Nature. Far from recommending him,
they speak ill of him, fearing lest he should become the physician of
their best friends.
"My dear fellow, those women of whom you say, 'They are angels!' I--
I--have seen stripped of the little grimaces under which they hide their
soul, as well as of the frippery under which they disguise their
defects--without manners and without stays; they are not beautiful.
"We saw a great deal of mud, a great deal of dirt, under the waters of
the world when we were aground for a time on the shoals of the Maison
Vauquer.--What we saw there was nothing. Since I have gone into high
society, I have seen monsters dressed in satin, Michonneaus in white
gloves, Poirets bedizened with orders, fine gentlemen doing more
usurious business than old Gobseck! To the shame of mankind, when I
have wanted to shake hands with Virtue, I have found her shivering in a
loft, persecuted by calumny, half-starving on a income or a salary of
fifteen hundred francs a year, and regarded as crazy, or eccentric, or
imbecile.
"In short, my dear boy, the Marquise is a woman of fashion, and I have
a particular horror of that kind of woman. Do you want to know why?
A woman who has a lofty soul, fine taste, gentle wit, a generously
warm heart, and who lives a simple life, has not a chance of being the
fashion. Ergo: A woman of fashion and a man in power are analogous;
but there is this difference: the qualities by which a man raises himself
above others ennoble him and are a glory to him; whereas the qualities
by which a woman gains power for a day are hideous vices; she belies
her nature to hide her character, and to live the militant life of the world
she must have iron strength under a frail appearance.
"I, as a physician, know that a sound stomach excludes a good heart.
Your woman of fashion feels nothing; her rage for pleasure has its

source in a longing to heat up her cold nature, a craving for excitement
and enjoyment, like an old man who stands night after night by the
footlights at the opera. As she has more brain than heart, she sacrifices
genuine passion and true friends to her triumph, as a general sends his
most devoted subalterns to the front in order to win a battle. The
woman of fashion ceases to be a woman; she is neither mother, nor
wife, nor lover. She is, medically speaking, sex in the brain. And your
Marquise, too, has all the characteristics of her monstrosity, the beak of
a bird of prey, the clear, cold eye, the gentle voice--she is as polished as
the steel of a machine, she touches everything except the heart."
"There is some truth in what you say, Bianchon."
"Some truth?" replied Bianchon. "It is all true. Do you suppose that