Study of a Woman | Page 4

which
becomes quite magical if, by chance, she is animated. A soul is then
divined behind that rather indefinite form. If she takes an interest in the
conversation she displays a grace which is otherwise buried beneath the
precautions of cold demeanor, and then she is charming. She does not
seek success, but she obtains it. We find that for which we do not seek:
that saying is so often true that some day it will be turned into a
proverb. It is, in fact, the moral of this adventure, which I should not
allow myself to tell if it were 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 will
add that Eugene was, by this time, writing letters. He was comfortably
seated, with his feet more frequently on the andirons than, properly, on
the rug. Ah! to have one's feet on the polished bar which connects the
two griffins of a fender, and to think of our love in our dressing-gown
is so delightful a thing that I deeply regret the fact of having neither
mistress, nor fender, nor dressing-gown.
The first letter which Eugene wrote was soon finished; he folded and
sealed it, and laid it before him without adding the address. The second
letter, begun at eleven o'clock, was not finished till mid-day. The four
pages were closely filled.
"That woman keeps running in my head," he muttered, as he folded this
second epistle and laid it before him, intending to direct it as soon as he
had ended his involuntary revery.
He crossed the two flaps of his flowered dressing-gown, put his feet on
a stool, slipped his hands into the pockets of his red cashmere trousers,
and lay back in a delightful easy-chair with side wings, the seat and
back of which described an angle of one hundred and twenty degrees.
He stopped drinking tea and remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the
gilded hand which formed the knob of his shovel, but without seeing
either hand or shovel. He ceased even to poke the fire, --a vast mistake!
Isn't it one of our greatest pleasures to play with the fire when we think
of women? Our minds find speeches in those tiny blue flames which
suddenly dart up and babble on the hearth. We interpret as we please

the strong, harsh tones of a "burgundian."
Here I must pause to put before all ignorant persons an explanation of
that word, derived from a very distinguished etymologist who wishes
his name kept secret.
"Burgundian" is the name given, since the reign of Charles VI., to those
noisy detonations, the result of which is to fling upon the carpet or the
clothes a little coal or ember, the trifling nucleus of a conflagration.
Heat or fire releases, they say, a bubble of air