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Eugene at last went to call upon the marquise; but, on attempting to pass into the house, the porter stopped him, saying that Madame la marquise was out. As he was getting back into his carriage the Marquis de Listomere came home.

“Come in, Eugene,” he said. “My wife is at home.”

Pray excuse the marquis. A husband, however good he may be, never attains perfection. As they went up the staircase Rastignac perceived at least a dozen blunders in worldly wisdom which had, unaccountably, slipped into this page of the glorious book of his life.

When Madame de Listomere saw her husband ushering in Eugene she could not help blushing. The young baron saw that sudden color. If the most humble-minded man retains in the depths of his soul a certain conceit of which he never rids himself, any more than a woman ever rids herself of coquetry, who shall blame Eugene if he did say softly in his own mind: “What! that fortress, too?” So thinking, he posed in his cravat. Young men may not be grasping but they like to get a new coin in their collection.

Monsieur de Listomere seized the “Gazette de France,” which he saw on the mantelpiece, and carried it to a window, to obtain, by journalistic help, an opinion of his own on the state of France.

A woman, even a prude, is never long embarrassed, however difficult may be the position in which she finds herself; she seems always to have on hand the fig-leaf which our mother Eve bequeathed to her. Consequently, when Eugene, interpreting, in favor of his vanity, the refusal to admit him, bowed to Madame de Listomere in a tolerably intentional manner, she veiled her thoughts behind one of those feminine smiles which are more impenetrable than the words of a king.

“Are you unwell, madame? You denied yourself to visitors.”

“I am well, monsieur.”

“Perhaps you were going out?”

“Not at all.”

“You expected some one?”

“No one.”

“If my visit is indiscreet you must blame Monsieur le marquis. I had already accepted your mysterious denial, when he himself came up, and introduced me into the sanctuary.”

“Monsieur de Listomere is not in my confidence on this point. It is not always prudent to put a husband in possession of certain secrets.”

The firm and gentle tones in which the marquise said these words, and the imposing glance which she cast upon Rastignac made him aware that he had posed in his cravat a trifle prematurely.

“Madame, I understand you,” he said, laughing. “I ought, therefore, to be doubly thankful that Monsieur le marquis met me; he affords me an opportunity to offer you excuses which might be full of danger were you not kindness itself.”

The marquise looked at the young man with an air of some surprise, but she answered with dignity:–

“Monsieur, silence on your part will be the best excuse. As for me, I promise you entire forgetfulness, and the pardon which you scarcely deserve.”

“Madame,” said Rastignac, hastily, “pardon is not needed where there was no offence. The letter,” he added, in a low voice, “which you received, and which you must have thought extremely unbecoming, was not intended for you.”

The marquise could not help smiling, though she wished to seem offended.

“Why deceive?” she said, with a disdainful air, although the tones of her voice were gentle. “Now that I have duly scolded you, I am willing to laugh at a subterfuge which is not without cleverness. I know many women who would be taken in by it: ‘Heavens! how he loves me!’ they would say.”

Here the marquise gave a forced laugh, and then added, in a tone of indulgence:–

“If we desire to continue friends let there be no more mistakes, of which it is impossible that I should be the dupe.”

“Upon my honor, madame, you are so–far more than you think,” replied Eugene.

“What are you talking about?” asked Monsieur de Listomere, who, for the last minute, had been listening to the conversation, the meaning of which he could not penetrate.