“How absurd!” “We take so many things from the English just now that we might well become as great prudes and hypocrites as themselves,” said Henri. Laurent had set before his master such a quantity of utensils, so many different articles of such elegance, that Paul could not refrain from saying: “But you will take a couple of hours over that?” “No!” said Henri, “two hours and a half.” “Well, then, since we are by ourselves, and can say what we like, explain to me why a man as superior as yourself--for you are superior--should affect to exaggerate a foppery which cannot be natural. Why spend two hours and a half in adorning yourself, when it is sufficient to spend a quarter of an hour in your bath, to do your hair in two minutes, and to dress! There, tell me your system.” “I must be very fond of you, my good dunce, to confide such high thoughts to you,” said the young man, who was at that moment having his feet rubbed with a soft brush lathered with English soap. “Have I not the most devoted attachment to you,” replied Paul de Manerville, “and do I not like you because I know your superiority?...” “You must have noticed, if you are in the least capable of observing any moral fact, that women love fops,” went on De Marsay, without replying in any way to Paul’s declaration except by a look. “Do you know why women love fops? My friend, fops are the only men who take care of themselves. Now, to take excessive care of oneself, does it not imply that one takes care in oneself of what belongs to another? The man who does not belong to himself is precisely the man on whom women are keen. Love is essentially a thief. I say nothing about that excess of niceness to which they are so devoted. Do you know of any woman who has had a passion for a sloven, even if he were a remarkable man? If such a fact has occurred, we must put it to the account of those morbid affections of the breeding woman, mad fancies which float through the minds of everybody. On the other hand, I have seen most remarkable people left in the lurch because of their carelessness. A fop, who is concerned about his person, is concerned with folly, with petty things. And what is a woman? A petty thing, a bundle of follies. With two words said to the winds, can you not make her busy for four hours? She is sure that the fop will be occupied with her, seeing that he has no mind for great things. She will never be neglected for glory, ambition, politics, art--those prostitutes who for her are rivals. Then fops have the courage to cover themselves with ridicule in order to please a woman, and her heart is full of gratitude towards the man who is ridiculous for love. In fine, a fop can be no fop unless he is right in being one. It is women who bestow that rank. The fop is love’s colonel; he has his victories, his regiment of women at his command. My dear fellow, in Paris everything is known, and a man cannot be a fop there _gratis_.