Mademoiselle Cormon, from a sense of shamefacedness, dared not look at the terrible seducer.

She seized upon Athanase, and began to lecture him with the queerest platitudes about royalist politics and religious morality.

Not possessing, like the Chevalier de Valois, a snuff-box adorned with a princess, by the help of which he could stand this torrent of silliness, the poor poet listened to the words of her whom he loved with a stupid air, gazing, meanwhile, at her enormous bust, which held itself before him in that still repose which is the attribute of all great masses.

His love produced in him a sort of intoxication which changed the shrill voice of the old maid into a soft murmur, and her flat remarks into witty speeches.

Love is a maker of false coin, continually changing copper pennies into gold-pieces, and sometimes turning its real gold into copper.
"Well, Athanase, will you promise me ?" This final sentence struck the ear of the absorbed young man like one of those noises which wake us with a bound.
"What, mademoiselle ?" Mademoiselle Cormon rose hastily, and looked at du Bousquier, who at that moment resembled the stout god of Fable which the Republic stamped upon her coins.