selves even through their grossest
deceit, because their actions are prompted by a natural impulse. It may
have been that Delphine, who had allowed this young man to gain such an
ascendency over her, conscious that she had been too demonstrative, was
obeying a sentiment of dignity, and either repented of her concessions,
or it pleased her to suspend them. It is so natural to a Parisienne,
even when passion has almost mastered her, to hesitate and pause before
taking the plunge; to probe the heart of him to whom she intrusts her
future. And once already Mme. de Nucingen's hopes had been betrayed,
and her loyalty to a selfish young lover had been despised. She had good
reason to be suspicious. Or it may have been that something in Eugene's
manner (for his rapid success was making a coxcomb of him) had warned
her that the grotesque nature of their position had lowered her somewhat
in his eyes. She doubtless wished to assert her dignity; he was young,
and she would be great in his eyes; for the lover who had forsaken her
had held her so cheap that she was determined that Eugene should not
think her an easy conquest, and for this very reason--he knew that
de Marsay had been his predecessor. Finally, after the degradation of
submission to the pleasure of a heartless young rake, it was so sweet
to her to wander in the flower-strewn realms of love, that it was not
wonderful that she should wish to dwell a while on the prospect, to
tremble with the vibrations of love, to feel the freshness of the breath
of its dawn. The true lover was suffering for the sins of the false.
This inconsistency is unfortunately only to be expected so long as men
do not know how many flowers are mown down in a young woman's soul by
the first stroke of treachery.

Whatever her reasons may have been, Delphine was playing with Rastignac,
and took pleasure in playing with him, doubtless because she felt sure
of his love, and confident that she could put an end to the torture
as soon as it was her royal pleasure to do so. Eugene's self-love was
engaged; he could not suffer his first passage of love to end in a
defeat, and persisted in his suit like a sportsman determined to
bring down at least one partridge to celebrate his first Feast of
Saint-Hubert. The pressure of anxiety, his wounded self-love, his
despair, real or feigned, drew him nearer and nearer to this woman. All
Paris credited him with this conquest, and yet he was conscious that he
had made no