The beginning of this passion was, as in the case of almost all deep

thinkers, an idea. Looking at the princess, studying the shape of her
head, the arrangement of those sweet features, her figure, her hand,

so finely modelled, closer than when he accompanied his friend in
their wild rush through the streets, he was struck by the surprising

phenomenon of the moral second-sight which a man exalted by love
invariably finds within him. With what lucidity had Michel Chrestien

read into that soul, that heart, illumined by the fires of love! Thus
the princess acquired, in d'Arthez's eyes, another charm; a halo of

poesy surrounded her.
As the dinner proceeded, Daniel called to mind the various confidences

of his friend, his despair, his hopes, the noble poems of a true
sentiment sung to his ear alone, in honor of this woman. It is rare

that a man passes without remorse from the position of confidant to
that of rival, and d'Arthez was free to do so without dishonor. He had

suddenly, in a moment, perceived the enormous differences existing
between a well-bred woman, that flower of the great world, and common

women, though of the latter he did not know beyond one specimen. He
was thus captured on the most accessible and sensitive sides of his

soul and of his genius. Impelled by his simplicity, and by the
impetuosity of his ideas, to lay immediate claim to this woman, he

found himself restrained by society, also by the barrier which the
manners and, let us say the word, the majesty of the princess placed

between them. The conversation, which remained upon the topic of
Michel Chrestien until the dessert, was an excellent pretext for both

to speak in a low voice: love, sympathy, comprehension! she could pose
as a maligned and misunderstood woman; he could slip his feet into the

shoes of the dead republican. Perhaps his candid mind detected itself
in regretting his dead friend less. The princess, at the moment when

the dessert appeared upon the table, and the guests were separated by
a brilliant hedge of fruits and sweetmeats, thought best to put an end

to this flow of confidences by a charming little speech, in which she
delicately expressed the idea that Daniel and Michel were twin souls.

After this d'Arthez threw himself into the general conversation with
the gayety of a child, and a self-conceited air that was worthy of a

schoolboy. When they left the dining-room, the princess took
d'Arthez's arm, in the simplest manner, to return to Madame d'Espard's

little salon. As they crossed the grand salon she walked slowly, and
when sufficiently separated from the marquise, who was on Blondet's

arm, she stopped.
"I do not wish to be inaccessible to the friend of that poor man," she

said to d'Arthez; "and though I have made it a rule to receive no
visitors, you will always be welcome in my house. Do not think this a

favor. A favor is only for strangers, and to my mind you and I seem
old friends; I see in you the brother of Michel."

D'Arthez could only press her arm, unable to make other reply.
After coffee was served, Diane de Cadignan wrapped herself, with

coquettish motions, in a large shawl, and rose. Blondet and Rastignac
were too much men of the world, and too polite to make the least

remonstrance, or try to detain her; but Madame d'Espard compelled her
friend to sit down again, whispering in her ear:--

"Wait till the servants have had their dinner; the carriage is not
ready yet."

So saying, the marquise made a sign to the footman, who was taking
away the coffee-tray. Madame de Montcornet perceived that the princess

and Madame d'Espard had a word to say to each other, and she drew
around her d'Arthez, Rastignac, and Blondet, amusing them with one of

those clever paradoxical attacks which Parisian women understand so
thoroughly.

"Well," said the marquise to Diane, "what do you think of him?"
"He is an adorable child, just out of swaddling-clothes! This time,

like all other times, it will only be a triumph without a struggle."
"Well, it is disappointing," said Madame d'Espard. "But we might evade

it."
"How?"

"Let me be your rival."
"Just as you please," replied the princess. "I've decided on my

course. Genius is a condition of the brain; I don't know what the
heart gets out of it; we'll talk about that later."

Hearing the last few words, which were wholly incomprehensible to her,
Madame d'Espard returned to the general conversation, showing neither

offence at that indifferent "As you please," nor curiosity as to the
outcome of the interview. The princess stayed an hour longer, seated

on the sofa near the fire, in the careless, nonchalant attitude of
Guerin's Dido, listening with the attention of an absorbed mind, and

looking at Daniel now and then, without disguising her admiration,
which never went, however, beyond due limits. She slipped away when

the carriage was announced, with a pressure of the hand to the
marquise, and an inclination of the head to Madame de Montcornet.

The evening concluded without any allusion to the princess. The other
guests profited by the sort of exaltation which d'Arthez had reached,

for he put forth the treasures of his mind. In Blondet and Rastignac
he certainly had two acolytes of the first quality to bring forth the

delicacy of his wit and the breadth of his intellect. As for the two
women, they had long been counted among the cleverest in society. This

evening was like a halt in the oasis of a desert,--a rare enjoyment,
and well appreciated by these four persons, habitually victimized to

the endless caution entailed by the world of salons and politics.
There are beings who have the privilege of passing among men like

beneficent stars, whose light illumines the mind, while its rays send
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?"

"Didn't you see, at dinner," replied Rastignac, laughing, "her son,
the Duc de Maufrigneuse. That young man is nineteen years old;

nineteen and seventeen make--"
"Thirty-six!" cried the amazed author. "I gave her twenty."

"She'll accept them," said Rastignac; "but don't be uneasy, she will
always be twenty to you. You are about to enter the most fantastic of

worlds. Good-night, here you are at home," said the baron, as they
entered the rue de Bellefond, where d'Arthez lived in a pretty little

house of his own. "We shall meet at Mademoiselle des Touches's in the
course of the week."

CHAPTER III
THE PRINCESS GOES TO WORK

D'Arthez allowed love to enter his heart after the manner of my Uncle
Toby, without making the slightest resistance; he proceeded by

adoration without criticism, and by exclusiveadmiration. The
princess, that noble creature, one of the most remarkable creations of

our monstrous Paris, where all things are possible, good as well as
evil, became--whatever vulgarity the course of time may have given to

the expression--the angel of his dreams. To fully understand the
sudden transformation of this illustrious author, it is necessary to