eir
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."

Her