Have you ever observed how in childhood, or at the early stages of social life, we create a model for our own imitation, with our own hands as it were, and often without knowing it?  The banker’s clerk, for instance, as he enters his master’s drawing-room, dreams of possessing such another.  If he makes a fortune, it will not be the luxury of the day, twenty years later, that you will find in his house, but the old-fashioned splendor that fascinated him of yore.  It is impossible to tell how many absurdities are due to this retrospective jealousy; and in the same way we know nothing of the follies due to the covert rivalry that urges men to copy the type they have set themselves, and exhaust their powers in shining with a reflected light, like the moon.

Crevel was deputy mayor because his predecessor had been; he was Major because he coveted Cesar Birotteau’s epaulettes.  In the same way, struck by the marvels wrought by Grindot the architect, at the time when Fortune had carried his master to the top of the wheel, Crevel had “never looked at both sides of a crown-piece,” to use his own language, when he wanted to “do up” his rooms; he had gone with his purse open and his eyes shut to Grindot, who by this time was quite forgotten.  It is impossible to guess how long an extinct reputation may survive, supported by such stale admiration.

So Grindot, for the thousandth time had displayed his white-and-gold drawing-room paneled with crimson damask.  The furniture, of rosewood, clumsily carved, as such work is done for the trade, had in the country been the source of just pride in Paris workmanship on the occasion of an industrial exhibition.  The candelabra, the fire-dogs, the fender, the chandelier, the clock, were all in the most unmeaning style of scroll-work; the round table, a fixture in the middle of the room, was a mosaic of fragments of Italian and antique marbles, brought from Rome, where these dissected maps are made of mineralogical specimens—­for all the world like tailors’ patterns—­an object of perennial admiration to Crevel’s citizen friends.  The portraits of the late lamented Madame Crevel, of Crevel himself, of his daughter and his son-in-law, hung on the walls, two and two; they were the work of Pierre Grassou, the favored painter of the bourgeoisie, to whom Crevel owed his ridiculous Byronic attitude.  The frames, costing a thousand francs each, were quite in harmony with this coffee-house magnificence, which would have made any true artist shrug his shoulders.

Money never yet missed the smallest opportunity of being stupid.  We should have in Paris ten Venices if our retired merchants had had the instinct for fine things characteristic of the Italians.  Even in our own day a Milanese merchant could leave five hundred thousand francs to the Duomo, to regild the colossal statue of the Virgin that crowns the edifice.  Canova, in his will, desired his brother to build a church costing four million francs, and that brother adds something on his own account.  Would a citizen of Paris—­and they all, like Rivet, love their Paris in their heart—­ever dream of building the spires that are lacking to the towers of Notre-Dame?  And only think of the sums that revert to the State in property for which no heirs are found.