ybreak from
the dance, as he had done sometimes on former occasions, after a fete at
the Prado, or a ball at the Odeon, splashing his silk stockings thereby,
and ruining his pumps.

It so happened that Christophe took a look into the street before
drawing the bolts of the door; and Rastignac, coming in at that
moment, could go up to his room without making any noise, followed by
Christophe, who made a great deal. Eugene exchanged his dress suit for a
shabby overcoat and slippers, kindled a fire with some blocks of patent
fuel, and prepared for his night's work in such a sort that the faint
sounds he made were drowned by Christophe's heavy tramp on the stairs.

Eugene sat absorbed in thought for a few moments before plunging into
his law books. He had just become aware of the fact that the Vicomtesse
de Beauseant was one of the queens of fashion, that her house was
thought to be the pleasantest in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. And not
only so, she was, by right of her fortune, and the name she bore, one of
the most conspicuous figures in that aristocratic world. Thanks to the
aunt, thanks to Mme. de Marcillac's letter of introduction, the poor
student had been kindly received in that house before he knew the extent
of the favor thus shown to him. It was almost like a patent of nobility
to be admitted to those gilded salons; he had appeared in the most
exclusive circle in Paris, and now all doors were open for him. Eugene
had been dazzled at first by the brilliant assembly, and had scarcely
exchanged a few words with the Vicomtesse; he had been content to single
out a goddess among this throng of Parisian divinities, one of those
women who are sure to attract a young man's fancy.

The Comtesse Anastasie de Restaud was tall and gracefully made; she
had one of the prettiest figures in Paris. Imagine a pair of great dark
eyes, a magnificently moulded hand, a shapely foot. There was a fiery
energy in her movements; the Marquis de Ronquerolles had called her "a
thoroughbred," "a pure pedigree," these figures of speech have replaced
the "heavenly angel" and Ossianic nomenclature; the old mythology of
love is extinct, doomed to perish by modern dandyism. But for Rastignac,
Mme. Anastasie de Restaud was the woman for whom he had sighed. He had
contrived to write his name twice upon the list of partners upon her
fan, and had snatched a few words with her during the first quadrille.

"Where shall I meet you again, Madame?" he aske