At the first glance, then, it is natural to consider as very distinct
the two sorts of young men who lead the life of elegance, the amiable
corporation to which Henri de Marsay belonged. But the observer, who
goes beyond the superficial aspect of things, is soon convinced that
the difference is purely moral, and that nothing is so deceptive as
this pretty outside. Nevertheless, all alike take precedence over
everybody else; speak rightly or wrongly of things, of men,
literature, and the fine arts; have ever in their mouth the Pitt and
Coburg of each year; interrupt a conversation with a pun, turn into
ridicule science and the _savant_; despise all things which they do
not know or which they fear; set themselves above all by constituting
themselves the supreme judges of all. They would all hoax their
fathers, and be ready to shed crocodile tears upon their mothers'
breasts; but generally they believe in nothing, blaspheme women, or
play at modesty, and in reality are led by some old woman or an evil
courtesan. They are all equally eaten to the bone with calculation,
with depravity, with a brutal lust to succeed, and if you plumbed for
their hearts you would find in all a stone. In their normal state they
have the prettiest exterior, stake their friendship at every turn, are
captivating alike. The same badinage dominates their ever-changing
jargon; they seek for oddity in their toilette, glory in repeating the
stupidities of such and such actor who is in fashion, and commence
operations, it matters not with whom, with contempt and impertinence,
in order to have, as it were, the first move in the game; but, woe
betide him who does not know how to take a blow on one cheek for the
sake of rendering two.
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