present moment and her son's marriage,--five solitary
and desolate years; for, in order to obtain such a marriage for her
son, she knew that her own conduct must be marked in the corner with
discretion.

The princess lived in the rue de Miromesnil, in a small house, of which
she occupied the ground-floor at a moderate rent. There she made the
most of the relics of her past magnificence. The elegance of the great
lady was still redolent about her. She was still surrounded by beautiful
things which recalled her former existence. On her chimney-piece was a
fine miniature portrait of Charles X., by Madame Mirbel, beneath which
were engraved the words, "Given by the King"; and, as a pendant, the
portrait of "Madame", who was always her kind friend. On a table lay an
album of costliest price, such as none of the bourgeoises who now lord
it in our industrial and fault-finding society would have dared to
exhibit. This album contained portraits, about thirty in number, of
her intimate friends, whom the world, first and last, had given her as
lovers. The number was a calumny; but had rumor said ten, it might have
been, as her friend Madame d'Espard remarked, good, sound gossip. The
portraits of Maxime de Trailles, de Marsay, Rastignac, the Marquis
d'Esgrignon, General Montriveau, the Marquis de Ronquerolles and
d'Ajuda-Pinto, Prince Galathionne, the young Ducs de Grandlieu and de
Rhetore, the Vicomte de Serizy, and the handsome Lucien de Rubempre,
had all been treated with the utmost coquetry of brush and pencil by
celebrated artists. As the princess now received only two or three of
these personages, she called the book, jokingly, the collection of her
errors.

Misfortune had made this woman a good mother. During the fifteen years
of the Restoration she had amused herself far too much to think of
her son; but on taking refuge in obscurity, this illustrious egoist
bethought her that the maternal sentiment, developed to its extreme,
might be an absolution for her past follies in the eyes of sensible
persons, who pardon everything to a good mother. She loved her son all
the more because she had nothing else to love. Georges de Maufrigneuse
was, moreover, one of those children who flatter the vanities of a
mother; and the princess had, accordingly, made all sorts of sacrifices
for him. She hired a stable and coach-house, above which he lived in a
little entresol with three rooms looking on the street, and charmingly
furnished; she