"That man ought to be happy," I said to myself, thinking of Raymond; "he has no doubt of anything; he believes himself to be intellectual, talented, and handsome. If a woman doesn't listen to him, it's because she's afraid of loving him too well; if his poems are not printed, it's because the publishers are ignorant; if his plays are not accepted, a cabal of authors is responsible: his self-esteem does not allow him to look at things from any but a flattering point of view. I am convinced that he believes himself to be courageous, although he fought a duel with bulletless pistols; and that he would consider himself a soldier if he were in the band of the national lottery; just as he thinks he has a fine leg because he has fat calves, and beautiful hair because he's as woolly-headed as a negro. However, he is happy, and that's the main point. Happy people are not so rare as they are said to be; for there are many in the world who resemble neighbor Raymond." If it had not been so late, I would have gone to see Nicette; to read in her eyes that sentiment so sweet, so affectionate, and, perhaps, so true, that I had never found in Mademoiselle Caroline's lovely eyes; I say _perhaps_, for I dared not trust anything or anybody. On going out I unconsciously took the direction of Rue Caumartin, nor did I stop until I reached the corner of that street and the boulevard. It was all a matter of habit; habit is responsible for many things that we do. In fact, it is a sort of second nature, it binds us in default of love. How many people there are who have ceased to love each other, and who remain together from habit! I do not refer to those who are married; they cannot do otherwise. In order to put an end the sooner to that habit, which could not be very deeply rooted, as my intimacy with Caroline had lasted only two months, I determined to call upon Madame de Marsan, with whom I recalled that I had been more or less in love. At all events, I owed her a visit for the invitation which she had sent me, and of which I had been unable to avail myself, thanks to my travelling companion. She lived on Faubourg Saint-Honoré, I remembered, near the first street on the right; in any event, I could inquire; rich people are well known and are always easy to find; it is only the poor who are ashamed of their poverty whom no one knows; but then, it is so seldom that anyone seeks them. I bent my steps toward Faubourg Saint-Honoré and inquired for Monsieur de Marsan. Three or four persons eagerly showed me his house, pointed it out with their fingers. Evidently Monsieur de Marsan was a very wealthy man! everybody knew him or wished to appear to know him. Really, wealth is a fine thing!