8 It appears that Valenod has aquired an aristocratic particle (de) along with his title.
The Red and the Black
Chapter Eight: Which Medals Are Honorable? "Your water does not refresh me," said the thirsty demon. "Yet it's the coolest well in all of Turkestan." —Pellico1 Julien came back, one day, from the charming estate of Villequier, bordering on the Seine, to which Monsieur de La Mole was especially attracted, for of all his properties it was the only one that had been owned, once upon a time, by his famous ancestor, Boniface de La Mole. Julien found the marquise and her daughter, newly returned from Hyères.2 Julien had become a dandy, and understood the art of life in Paris. His cool demeanor toward Mademoiselle de La Mole was perfection itself. He appeared to have no memory whatever of her asking, so gaily, for the details of his tumble from a horse. She found him taller and paler. Neither his figure nor his clothing retained anything of the provincial. But this was not true of his conversation, in which there remained, still, entirely too much of the serious, of the assertive. In spite of such intellectual traits, he showed no signs of inferior status, thanks largely to his pride: one simply felt that, still, he viewed too much as important. Yet he was clearly a man who would back up what he said. "His touch needs an improving lightness, but not his mind," Mademoiselle de La Mole told her father, teasing him about the medal he'd given Julien. "For the last year and a half, my brother's been asking you for one—and he's a de La Mole!..." "Yes. But Julien can surprise you, which is not something one can say of the de La Mole in question." The Duke de Retz3 was announced. An irresistible fit of yawning descended on Mathilde; she was aware of the old, gilt- covered objects in her father's drawing room, and the old visitors who came there. She had a vivid sense of the life she was resuming, here in Paris, in all its perfect boredom. Yet when she'd been in Hyères, she had missed Paris. "And I'm still only nineteen!" she thought. "This is the time for happiness, according to all these gilt-edged morons!" She was looking at eight or ten brand-new books of poetry that had accumulated on the long, narrow table, fixed to the drawing room wall during her days in Provence. Unfortunately, she was smarter than Messieurs de Croisenois, de Caylus, de Luz, and her other friends. She could just imagine what they'd be telling her about the lovely skies of Provence, and poetry, and the South, etc., etc. Her beautiful eyes, full of the most intense boredom—and, worse still, despair of ever being happy—lingered on Julien. At least he was not exactly like all the others. "Monsieur Sorel," she said, speaking briskly, curt, and in no way feminine (as all high society's young women were expected to speak), "Monsieur Sorel, will you come to the Duke de Retz's ball, tonight?" "Mademoiselle, I've never had the honor of being introduced to the duke." (It might be said that these words, and especially the ducal title, ripped the skin off this proud provincial's mouth.) "He has asked my brother to bring you and, if you do come, you might tell me all about Villequier. There's some talk of going there, this spring. I'd like to know if the house is livable,