not echoing at the present moment through all the salons of Paris.

The Marquise de Listomere danced, about a month ago, with a young man
as modest as he is lively, full of good qualities, but exhibiting,
chiefly, his defects. He is ardent, but he laughs at ardor; he has
talent, and he hides it; he plays the learned man with aristocrats,
and the aristocrat with learned men. Eugene de Rastignac is one of
those extremely clever young men who try all things, and seem to sound
others to discover what the future has in store. While awaiting the
age of ambition, he scoffs at everything; he has grace and
originality, two rare qualities because the one is apt to exclude the
other. On this occasion he talked for nearly half an hour with madame
de Listomere, without any predetermined idea of pleasing her. As they
followed the caprices of conversation, which, beginning with the opera
of "Guillaume Tell," had reached the topic of the duties of women, he
looked at the marquise, more than once, in a manner that embarrassed
her; then he left her and did not speak to her again for the rest of
the evening. He danced, played at ecarte, lost some money, and went
home to bed. I have the honor to assure you that the affair happened
precisely thus. I add nothing, and I suppress nothing.

The next morning Rastignac woke late and stayed in bed, giving himself
up to one of those matutinal reveries in the course of which a young
man glides like a sylph under many a silken, or cashmere, or cotton
drapery. The heavier the body from its weight of sleep, the more
active the mind. Rastignac finally got up, without yawning over-much
as many ill-bred persons are apt to do. He rang for his valet, ordered
tea, and drank immoderately of it when it came; which will not seem
extraordinary to persons who like tea; but to explain the circumstance
to others, who regard that beverage as a panacea for indigestion, I