a glow to the heart. D'Arthez was one of those beings. A writer who
rises to his level, accustoms himself to free thought, and forgets
that in society all things cannot be said; it is impossible for such a
man to observe the restraint of persons who live in the world
perpetually; but as his eccentricities of thought bore the mark of
originality, no one felt inclined to complain. This zest, this
piquancy, rare in mere talent, this youthfulness and simplicity of
soul which made d'Arthez so nobly original, gave a delightful charm to
this evening. He left the house with Rastignac, who, as they drove
home, asked him how he liked the princess.

"Michel did well to love her," replied d'Arthez; "she is, indeed, an
extraordinary woman."

"Very extraordinary," replied Rastignac, dryly. "By the tone of your
voice I should judge you were in love with her already. You will be in
her house within three days; and I am too old a denizen of Paris not
to know what will be the upshot of that. Well, my dear Daniel, I do
entreat you not to allow yourself to be drawn into any confusion of
interests, so to speak. Love the princess if you feel any love for her
in your heart, but keep an eye on your fortune. She has never taken or
asked a penny from any man on earth, she is far too much of a
d'Uxelles and a Cadignan for that; but, to my knowledge, she has not
only spent her own fortune, which was very considerable, but she has
made others waste millions. How? why? by what means? No one knows; she
doesn't know herself. I myself saw her swallow up, some thirteen years
ago, the entire fortune of a charming young fellow, and that of an old
notary, in twenty months."

"Thirteen years ago!" exclaimed d'Arthez,--"why, how old is she now?"