"See the pretty Formant looking quite common next to her," said the first. "That air of reserve means how much sweetness would I spend on you if you were the man who was worthy of me." "And who could be worthy of the sublime Mathilde," said the first man. "Some sovereign prince, handsome, witty, well-made, a hero in war, and twenty years old at the most." "The natural son of the Emperor of Russia ... who would be made a sovereign in honour of his marriage, or quite simply the comte de Thaler, who looks like a dressed-up peasant." The door was free, and Julien could go in. "Since these puppets consider her so remarkable, it is worth while for me to study her," he thought. "I shall then understand what these people regard as perfection." As his eyes were trying to find her, Mathilde looked at him. "My duty calls me," said Julien to himself. But it was only his expression which was bad-humoured. His curiosity made him advance with a pleasure which the extremely low cut dress on Mathilde's shoulder very quickly accentuated, in a manner which was scarcely flattering for his own self-respect. "Her beauty has youth," he thought. Five or six people, whom Julien recognised as those who had been speaking at the door were between her and him. "Now, Monsieur, you have been here all the winter," she said to him. "Is it not true that this is the finest ball of the season." He did not answer. "This quadrille of Coulon's strikes me as admirable, and those ladies dance it perfectly." The young men turned round to see who was the happy man, an answer from whom was positively insisted on. The answer was not encouraging. "I shall not be able to be a good judge, mademoiselle, I pass my life in writing. This is the first ball of this magnificence which I have ever seen." The young men with moustaches were scandalised. "You are a wise man, Monsieur Sorel," came the answer with a more marked interest. "You look upon all these balls, all these festivities, like a philosopher, like J. J. Rousseau. All these follies astonish without alluring you." Julien's imagination had just hit upon an epigram which banished all illusions from his mind. His mouth assumed the expression of a perhaps slightly exaggerated disdain. "J. J. Rousseau," he answered, "is in my view only a fool when he takes it upon himself to criticise society. He did not understand it, and he went into it with the spirit of a lackey who has risen above his station." "He wrote the _Contrat Social_," answered Mathilde reverently. "While he preaches the Republic, and the overthrow of monarchical dignities, the parvenu was intoxicated with happiness if a duke would go out of his way after dinner to one of his friends."