n o'clock, was not finished till mid-day. The four
pages were closely filled.

"That woman keeps running in my head," he muttered, as he folded this
second epistle and laid it before him, intending to direct it as soon as
he had ended his involuntary revery.

He crossed the two flaps of his flowered dressing-gown, put his feet
on a stool, slipped his hands into the pockets of his red cashmere
trousers, and lay back in a delightful easy-chair with side wings, the
seat and back of which described an angle of one hundred and twenty
degrees. He stopped drinking tea and remained motionless, his eyes fixed
on the gilded hand which formed the knob of his shovel, but without
seeing either hand or shovel. He ceased even to poke the fire,--a vast
mistake! Isn't it one of our greatest pleasures to play with the fire
when we think of women? Our minds find speeches in those tiny blue
flames which suddenly dart up and babble on the hearth. We interpret as
we please the strong, harsh tones of a "burgundian."

Here I must pause to put before all ignorant persons an explanation of
that word, derived from a very distinguished etymologist who wishes his
name kept secret.

"Burgundian" is the name given, since the reign of Charles VI., to those
noisy detonations, the result of which is to fling upon the carpet
or the clothes a little coal or ember, the trifling nucleus of a
conflagration. Heat or fire releases, they say, a bubble of air left in
the heart of the wood by a gnawing worm. "Inde amor, inde burgundus."
We tremble when we see the structure we had so carefully erected between
the logs rolling down like an avalanche. Oh! to build and stir and play
with fire when we love is the material development of our thoughts.

It was at this moment that I entered the room. Rastignac gave a jump and
said:--

"Ah! there you are, dear Horace; how long have you been here?"

"Just come."

"Ah!"

He took up the two letters, directed them, and rang for his servant.

"Take these," he said, "and deliver them."

Joseph departed without a word; admirable servant!

We began to talk of the expedition to Morea, to which I was anxious to
be appointed as physician. Eugene remarked that I should lose a great
deal of time if I left Paris. We then conversed on various matters, and
I think you will be glad if I suppress the conversation.

When the Marquise de Listomere rose, about half-past two in the
afternoon of that day, her waiting-maid, Carol