nearly enough, and I saw nothing in her indulgence but the
long-suffering charity of love.

"'Not quite so fast,' urged the prudent Gascon; 'Foedora has all the
sagacity natural to a profoundly selfish woman; perhaps she may have
taken your measure while you still coveted only her money and her
splendor; in spite of all your care, she could have read you through and
through. She can dissemble far too well to let any dissimulation pass
undetected. I fear,' he went on, 'that I have brought you into a
bad way. In spite of her cleverness and her tact, she seems to me a
domineering sort of person, like every woman who can only feel pleasure
through her brain. Happiness for her lies entirely in a comfortable life
and in social pleasures; her sentiment is only assumed; she will make
you miserable; you will be her head footman.'

"He spoke to the deaf. I broke in upon him, disclosing, with an
affectation of light-heartedness, the state of my finances.

"'Yesterday evening,' he rejoined, 'luck ran against me, and that
carried off all my available cash. But for that trivial mishap, I would
gladly have shared my purse with you. But let us go and breakfast at the
restaurant; perhaps there is good counsel in oysters.'

"He dressed, and had his tilbury brought round. We went to the Cafe
de Paris like a couple of millionaires, armed with all the audacious
impertinence of the speculator whose capital is imaginary. That devil
of a Gascon quite disconcerted me by the coolness of his manners and his
absolute self-possession. While we were taking coffee after an excellent
and well-ordered repast, a young dandy entered, who did not escape
Rastignac. He had been nodding here and there among the crowd to this or
that young man, distinguished both by personal attractions and elegant
attire, and now he said to me:

"'Here's your man,' as he beckoned to this gentleman with a wonderful
cravat, who seemed to be looking for a table that suited his ideas.

"'That rogue has been decorated for bringing out books that he doesn't
understand a word of,' whispered Rastignac; 'he is a chemist, a
historian, a novelist, and a political writer; he has gone halves,
thirds, or quarters in the authorship of I don't know how many plays,
and he is as ignorant as Dom Miguel's mule. He is not a man so much as
a name, a label that the public is familiar with. So he would do well to
avoid shops inscribed with the motto, "_Ici l'on peut ecrire soi-meme_."
He is