a call--I am still
waiting to receive it. I saw you at the Opera the other day, and you
would not deign to come to see me nor to take any notice of me."

"Your cousin, madame, so unmistakably dismissed me--"

"Oh! you do not know women," the Marquise d'Espard broke in upon him.
"You have wounded the most angelic heart, the noblest nature that I
know. You do not know all that Louise was trying to do for you, nor
how tactfully she laid her plans for you.--Oh! and she would have
succeeded," the Marquise continued, replying to Lucien's mute
incredulity. "Her husband is dead now; died, as he was bound to die, of
an indigestion; could you doubt that she would be free sooner or later?
And can you suppose that she would like to be Madame Chardon? It was
worth while to take some trouble to gain the title of Comtesse de
Rubempre. Love, you see, is a great vanity, which requires the lesser
vanities to be in harmony with itself--especially in marriage. I might
love you to madness--which is to say, sufficiently to marry you--and yet
I should find it very unpleasant to be called Madame Chardon. You can
see that. And now that you understand the difficulties of Paris life,
you will know how many roundabout ways you must take to reach your end;
very well, then, you must admit that Louise was aspiring to an all but
impossible piece of Court favor; she was quite unknown, she is not rich,
and therefore she could not afford to neglect any means of success.

"You are clever," the Marquise d'Espard continued; "but we women, when
we love, are cleverer than the cleverest man. My cousin tried to make
that absurd Chatelet useful--Oh!" she broke off, "I owe not a little
amusement to you; your articles on Chatelet made me laugh heartily."

Lucien knew not what to think of all this. Of the treachery and bad
faith of journalism he had had some experience; but in spite of his
perspicacity, he scarcely expected to find bad faith or treachery in
society. There were some sharp lessons in store for him.

"But, madame," he objected, for her words aroused a lively curiosity,
"is not the Heron under your protection?"

"One is obliged to be civil to one's worst enemies in society,"
protested she; "one may be bored, but one must look as if the talk was
amusing, and not seldom one seems to sacrifice friends the better to
serve them. Are you still a novice? You mean to write, and yet you know
nothing of current deceit? My cousin apparently sacrificed you to