he could
have guessed that the notary's real life was spent elsewhere.

The journalist saw a tall, fair girl with blue eyes, at once shy and
languishing. The elder brother took a fancy to him; he was the fourth
clerk in the office, but strongly attracted by the snares of literary
fame, though destined to succeed his father. The younger sister was
twelve years old. Lousteau, assuming a little Jesuitical air, played
the Monarchist and Churchman for the benefit of the mother, was quite
smooth, deliberate, and complimentary.

Within three weeks of their introduction, at his fourth dinner there,
Felicie Cardot, who had been watching Lousteau out of the corner of her
eye, carried him a cup of coffee where he stood in the window recess,
and said in a low voice, with tears in her eyes:

"I will devote my whole life, monsieur, to thanking you for your
sacrifice in favor of a poor girl----"

Lousteau was touched; there was so much expression in her look, her
accent, her attitude. "She would make a good man happy," thought he,
pressing her hand in reply.

Madame Cardot looked upon her son-in-law as a man with a future before
him; but, above all the fine qualities she ascribed to him, she was
most delighted by his high tone of morals. Etienne, prompted by the wily
notary, had pledged his word that he had no natural children, no tie
that could endanger the happiness of her dear Felicie.

"You may perhaps think I go rather too far," said the bigot to the
journalist; "but in giving such a jewel as my Felicie to any man, one
must think of the future. I am not one of those mothers who want to
be rid of their daughters. Monsieur Cardot hurries matters on, urges
forward his daughter's marriage; he wishes it over. This is the only
point on which we differ.--Though with a man like you, monsieur, a
literary man whose youth has been preserved by hard work from the moral
shipwreck now so prevalent, we may feel quite safe; still, you would be
the first to laugh at me if I looked for a husband for my daughter with
my eyes shut. I know you are not an innocent, and I should be very sorry
for my Felicie if you were" (this was said in a whisper); "but if you
had any _liaison_--For instance, monsieur, you have heard of Madame
Roguin, the wife of a notary who, unhappily for our faculty, was sadly
notorious. Madame Roguin has, ever since 1820, been kept by a banker--"

"Yes, du Tillet," replied Etienne; but he bit his tongue as he
recollected h