rbed in the labors of imagination. Suddenly he
smiled idiotically, and said:--

"Monsieur, one was for the Marquise de Listomere, the other was for
Monsieur's lawyer."

"You are certain of what you say?"

Joseph was speechless. I saw plainly that I must interfere, as I
happened to be again in Eugene's apartment.

"Joseph is right," I said.

Eugene turned and looked at me.

"I read the addresses quite involuntarily, and--"

"And," interrupted Eugene, "one of them was _not_ for Madame de
Nucingen?"

"No, by all the devils, it was not. Consequently, I supposed, my dear
fellow, that your heart was wandering from the rue Saint-Lazare to the
rue Saint-Dominique."

Eugene struck his forehead with the flat of his hand and began to laugh;
by which Joseph perceived that the blame was not on him.

Now, there are certain morals to this tale on which young men had better
reflect. _First mistake_: Eugene thought it would be amusing to
make Madame de Listomere laugh at the blunder which had made her the
recipient of a love-letter which was not intended for her. _Second
mistake_: he did not call on Madame de Listomere for several days after
the adventure, thus allowing the thoughts of that virtuous young woman
to crystallize. There were other mistakes which I will here pass over in
silence, in order to give the ladies the pleasure of deducing them, "ex
professo," to those who are unable to guess them.

Eugene at last went to call upon the marquise; but, on attempting to
pass into the house, the porter stopped him, saying that Madame la
marquise was out. As he was getting back into his carriage the Marquis
de Listomere came home.

"Come in, Eugene," he said. "My wife is at home."

Pray excuse the marquis. A husband, however good he may be, never
attains perfection. As they went up the staircase Rastignac perceived
at least a dozen blunders in worldly wisdom which had, unaccountably,
slipped into this page of the glorious book of his life.

When Madame de Listomere saw her husband ushering in Eugene she could
not help blushing. The young baron saw that sudden color. If the most
humble-minded man retains in the depths of his soul a certain conceit of
which he never rids himself, any more than a woman ever rids herself of
coquetry, who shall blame Eugene if he did say softly in his own mind:
"What! that fortress, too?" So thinking, he posed in his cravat.
Young men may not be grasping but they like to get a new coin in th