e of the ignorance and indifference of worldlings. He went
round by way of the printing office for David's volume of poetry.

The two lovers were left alone, and David had never felt more
embarrassed in his life. Countless terrors seized upon him; he half
wished, half feared that Eve would praise him; he longed to run away,
for even modesty is not exempt from coquetry. David was afraid to utter
a word that might seem to beg for thanks; everything that he could think
of put him in some false position, so he held his tongue and looked
guilty. Eve, guessing the agony of modesty, was enjoying the pause; but
when David twisted his hat as if he meant to go, she looked at him and
smiled.

"Monsieur David," she said, "if you are not going to pass the evening at
Mme. de Bargeton's, we can spend the time together. It is fine; shall we
take a walk along the Charente? We will have a talk about Lucien."

David longed to fling himself at the feet of this delicious girl.
Eve had rewarded him beyond his hopes by that tone in her voice; the
kindness of her accent had solved the difficulties of the position,
her suggestion was something better than praise; it was the first grace
given by love.

"But give me time to dress!" she said, as David made as if to go at
once.

David went out; he who all his life long had not known one tune
from another, was humming to himself; honest Postel hearing him with
surprise, conceived a vehement suspicion of Eve's feelings towards the
printer.

The most trifling things that happened that evening made a great
impression on Lucien, and his character was peculiarly susceptible to
first impressions. Like all inexperienced lovers he arrived so early
that Louise was not in the drawing-room; but M. de Bargeton was there,
alone. Lucien had already begun to serve his apprenticeship in the
practice of the small deceits with which the lover of a married woman
pays for his happiness--deceits through which, moreover, she learns the
extent of her power; but so far Lucien had not met the lady's husband
face to face.

M. de Bargeton's intellect was of the limited kind, exactly poised
on the border line between harmless vacancy, with some glimmerings of
sense, and the excessive stupidity that can neither take in nor give out
any idea. He was thoroughly impressed with the idea of doing his duty in
society; and, doing his utmost to be agreeable, had adopted the smile of
an opera dancer as his sole method of ex