e present moment through all the salons of Paris.

The Marquise de Listomere danced, about a month ago, with a young man as
modest as he is lively, full of good qualities, but exhibiting, chiefly,
his defects. He is ardent, but he laughs at ardor; he has talent, and he
hides it; he plays the learned man with aristocrats, and the aristocrat
with learned men. Eugene de Rastignac is one of those extremely clever
young men who try all things, and seem to sound others to discover what
the future has in store. While awaiting the age of ambition, he scoffs
at everything; he has grace and originality, two rare qualities because
the one is apt to exclude the other. On this occasion he talked for
nearly half an hour with madame de Listomere, without any predetermined
idea of pleasing her. As they followed the caprices of conversation,
which, beginning with the opera of "Guillaume Tell," had reached the
topic of the duties of women, he looked at the marquise, more than once,
in a manner that embarrassed her; then he left her and did not speak to
her again for the rest of the evening. He danced, played at ecarte, lost
some money, and went home to bed. I have the honor to assure you that
the affair happened precisely thus. I add nothing, and I suppress
nothing.

The next morning Rastignac woke late and stayed in bed, giving himself
up to one of those matutinal reveries in the course of which a young man
glides like a sylph under many a silken, or cashmere, or cotton drapery.
The heavier the body from its weight of sleep, the more active the mind.
Rastignac finally got up, without yawning over-much as many ill-bred
persons are apt to do. He rang for his valet, ordered tea, and drank
immoderately of it when it came; which will not seem extraordinary to
persons who like tea; but to explain the circumstance to others, who
regard that beverage as a panacea for indigestion, I will add that
Eugene was, by this time, writing letters. He was comfortably seated,
with his feet more frequently on the andirons than, properly, on the
rug. Ah! to have one's feet on the polished bar which connects the two
griffins of a fender, and to think of our love in our dressing-gown is
so delightful a thing that I deeply regret the fact of having neither
mistress, nor fender, nor dressing-gown.

The first letter which Eugene wrote was soon finished; he folded and
sealed it, and laid it before him without adding the address. The second
letter, begun at eleve