"Indeed," he told Moscowitch, as there entered a lean, insipid-looking person, whose eyes were terrified by apocalyptic visions, "here is a type worth observing. It is in vain for you to have talent, and even more than talent (_good_), my dear friend (_these familiar words give value to the compliment, by clothing it with sincerity_), yes, despite my inclination to irony I must end by confessing the impression you have made on me (_his eyes light up_), yes, more than talent (_the flower expands: open, precious flower of vanity, exhale thy heady odor, intoxicate him!_) ... well, nothing must be neglected ... observation ... the little characteristic facts ... these nothings which, capitalized, give a drama, just as a novel, an inimitable air of real Truth (_apostate_) ... Truth ... my dear ... the truth (_a ladder would be needed to paint on the curtain of nothingness the capital belonging to this word_....
_He commences to understand that I wish him well_) ... Listen to him, he is called Blondin and was as fine as his name, as pretty as a heart, but women have left only the shell."
"Ah! my poor friends," Blondin lamented, after having remained huddled in his chair, "there is another one this week. This makes the seventh this year, without counting all those which pass unnoticed ... Ah!"
"Ah! my poor friends," sighed Blondin, stretching his contracted hands towards a vision of horror, "to be buried alive, to twist in the coffin with anguish and suffocation ... and first of all the calvary of cataleptics condemned to torment ... the hypocritical tears ... the stirrings in the chamber ... the ominous carpenter ... the church ... the _Dies irae_ ... the stones and the wet ground, and the rain falling, falling, falling on the oak ... then silence, silence, silence...."
"My dear Blondin," Fortier said, "you should get married. That will divert you."
"Poor woman!" Renaudeau exclaimed. "Let him rather take light o' loves."
"But I believe," Entragues said, "that his principles...."
"Yes, this unfortunate creature is truly mal-treated by life. What a specimen. And not one of us is assured against such a disorder! When one thinks of this possible end, it is best to follow Fortier's advice, marry, become bourgeois, procreate and only read the first page of the papers, the _feuilleton_, the exchange, and deny oneself all other sundry facts as too exciting."