ine, gave her a letter
which she read while Caroline was doing her hair (an imprudence which
many young women are thoughtless enough to commit).

"Dear angel of love," said the letter, "treasure of my life and
happiness--"

At these words the marquise was about to fling the letter in the fire;
but there came into her head a fancy--which all virtuous women will
readily understand--to see how a man who began a letter in that style
could possibly end it. When she had turned the fourth page and read it,
she let her arms drop like a person much fatigued.

"Caroline, go and ask who left this letter."

"Madame, I received it myself from the valet of Monsieur le Baron de
Rastignac."

After that there was silence for some time.

"Does Madame intend to dress?" asked Caroline at last.

"No--He is certainly a most impertinent man," reflected the marquise.

I request all women to imagine for themselves the reflections of which
this was the first.

Madame de Listomere ended hers by a formal decision to forbid her porter
to admit Monsieur de Rastignac, and to show him, herself, something
more than disdain when she met him in society; for his insolence far
surpassed that of other men which the marquise had ended by overlooking.
At first she thought of keeping the letter; but on second thoughts she
burned it.

"Madame had just received such a fine love-letter; and she read it,"
said Caroline to the housemaid.

"I should never have thought that of madame," replied the other, quite
surprised.

That evening Madame de Listomere went to a party at the Marquis de
Beauseant's, where Rastignac would probably betake himself. It was
Saturday. The Marquis de Beauseant was in some way a connection of
Monsieur de Rastignac, and the young man was not likely to miss coming.
By two in the morning Madame de Listomere, who had gone there solely for
the purpose of crushing Eugene by her coldness, discovered that she was
waiting in vain. A brilliant man--Stendhal--has given the fantastic name
of "crystallization" to the process which Madame de Listomere's thoughts
went through before, during, and after this evening.

Four days later Eugene was scolding his valet.

"Ah ca! Joseph; I shall soon have to send you away, my lad."

"What is it, monsieur?"

"You do nothing but make mistakes. Where did you carry those letters I
gave you Saturday?"

Joseph became stolid. Like a statue in some cathedral porch, he stood
motionless, entirely abso