Blondet congratulated Raoul on encountering a woman guilty of nothing worse so far than horrible drawings in red chalk, attenuated water-colors, slippers embroidered for a husband, sonatas executed with the best intentions,--a girl tied to her mother's apron-strings till she was eighteen, trussed for religious practices, seasoned by Vandenesse, and cooked to a point by marriage.

At the third bottle of champagne, Raoul unbosomed himself as he had never done before in his life.
"My friends," he said, "you know my relations with Florine; you also know my life, and you will not be surprised to hear me say that I am absolutely ignorant of what a countess's love may be like.

I have often felt mortified that I, a poet, could not give myself a Beatrice, a Laura, except in poetry.

A pure and noble woman is like an unstained conscience,--she represents us to ourselves under a noble form.
Elsewhere we may soil ourselves, but with her we are always proud, lofty, and immaculate.

Elsewhere we lead ill-regulated lives; with her we breathe the calm, the freshness, the verdure of an oasis--" "Go on, go on, my dear fellow!" cried Rastignac; "twang that fourth string with the prayer in 'Moses' like Paganini." Raoul remained silent, with fixed eyes, apparently musing.
"This wretched ministerial apprentice does not understand me," he said, after a moment's silence.
So, while the poor Eve in the rue du Rocher went to bed in the sheets of shame, frightened at the pleasure with which she had listened to that sham great poet, these three bold minds were trampling with jests over the tender flowers of her dawning love.