and I think you will be glad if I suppress the conversation.

When the Marquise de Listomere rose, about half-past two in the
afternoon of that day, her waiting-maid, Caroline, 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.