time, and is rarely carried out by
any but courtesans, women of the town, or fine ladies who have the day
before them. She was only just ready when Lucien came, and appeared
before him as a newly opened flower. Her only care was that her poet
should be happy; she was his toy, his chattel; she gave him entire
liberty. She never cast a glance beyond the circle where she shone. On
this the Abbe had insisted, for it was part of his profound policy that
Lucien should have gallant adventures.

Happiness has no history, and the story-tellers of all lands have
understood this so well that the words, "They are happy," are the end of
every love tale. Hence only the ways and means can be recorded of this
really romantic happiness in the heart of Paris. It was happiness in its
loveliest form, a poem, a symphony, of four years' duration. Every woman
will exclaim, "That was much!" Neither Esther nor Lucien had ever
said, "This is too much!" And the formula, "They were happy," was
more emphatically true, than even in a fairy tale, for "they had _no_
children."

So Lucien could coquet with the world, give way to his poet's caprices,
and, it may be plainly admitted, to the necessities of his position. All
this time he was slowly making his way, and was able to render secret
service to certain political personages by helping them in their work.
In such matters he was eminently discreet. He cultivated Madame de
Serizy's circle, being, it was rumored, on the very best terms with
that lady. Madame de Serizy had carried him off from the Duchesse
de Maufrigneuse, who, it was said, had "thrown him over," one of the
phrases by which women avenge themselves on happiness they envy. Lucien
was in the lap, so to speak, of the High Almoner's set, and intimate
with women who were the Archbishop's personal friends. He was modest and
reserved; he waited patiently. So de Marsay's speech--de Marsay was
now married, and made his wife live as retired a life as Esther--was
significant in more ways that one.

But the submarine perils of such a course as Lucien's will be
sufficiently obvious in the course of this chronicle.

Matters were in this position when, one fine night in August, the Baron
de Nucingen was driving back to Paris from the country residence of a
foreign banker, settled in France, with whom he had been dining. The
estate lay at eight leagues from Paris in the district of la Brie. Now,
the Baron's coachman having undertaken to drive