the border line between harmlessvacancy, with some glimmerings of

sense, and the excessivestupidity that can neither take in nor give
out any idea. He was thoroughly impressed with the idea of doing his

duty in society; and, doing his utmost to be agreeable, had adopted
the smile of an opera dancer as his sole method of expression.

Satisfied, he smiled; dissatisfied, he smiled again. He smiled at good
news and evil tidings; with slight modifications the smile did duty on

all occasions. If he was positivelyobliged to express his personal
approval, a complacent laugh reinforced the smile; but he never

vouchsafed a word until driven to the last extremity. A tete-a-tete
put him in the one embarrassment of his vegetative existence, for then

he was obliged to look for something to say in the vast blank of his
vacant interior. He usually got out of the difficulty by a return to

the artless ways of childhood; he thought aloud, took you into his
confidence concerning the smallest details of his existence, his

physical wants, the small sensations which did duty for ideas with
him. He never talked about the weather, nor did he indulge in the

ordinary commonplaces of conversation--the way of escape provided for
weak intellects; he plunged you into the most intimate and personal

topics.
"I took veal this morning to please Mme. de Bargeton, who is very fond

of veal, and my stomach has been very uneasy since," he would tell
you. "I knew how it would be; it never suits me. How do you explain

it?" Or, very likely--
"I am just about to ring for a glass of eau sucree; will you have some

at the same time?"
Or, "I am going to take a ride to-morrow; I am going over to see my

father-in-law."
These short observations did not permit of discussion; a "Yes" or

"No," extracted from his interlocutor, the conversation dropped dead.
Then M. de Bargeton mutely implored his visitor to come to his

assistance. Turning westward his old asthmatic pug-dog countenance, he
gazed at you with big, lustreless eyes, in a way that said, "You were

saying?"
The people whom he loved best were bores anxious to talk about

themselves; he listened to them with an unfeigned and delicate
interest which so endeared him to the species that all the twaddlers

of Angouleme credited M. de Bargeton with more understanding than he
chose to show, and were of the opinion that he was underrated. So it

happened that when these persons could find nobody else to listen to
them, they went off to give M. de Bargeton the benefit of the rest of

the story, argument, or what not, sure beforehand of his eulogistic
smile. Madame de Bargeton's rooms were always crowded, and generally

her husband felt quite at ease. He interested himself in the smallest
details; he watched those who came in and bowed and smiled, and

brought the new arrivals to his wife; he lay in wait for departing
visitors, and went with them to the door, taking leave of them with

that eternal smile. When conversation grew lively, and he saw that
every one was interested in one thing or another, he stood, happy and

mute, planted like a swan on both feet, listening, to all appearance,
to a political discussion; or he looked over the card-players' hands

without a notion of what it was all about, for he could not play at
any game; or he walked about and took snuff to promote digestion.

Anais was the bright side of his life; she made it unspeakably
pleasant for him. Stretched out at full length in his armchair, he

watched admiringly while she did her part as hostess, for she talked
for him. It was a pleasure, too, to him to try to see the point in her

remarks; and as it was often a good while before he succeeded, his
smiles appeared after a delay, like the explosion of a shell which has

entered the earth and worked up again. His respect for his wife,
moreover, almost amounted to adoration. And so long as we can adore,

is there not happiness enough in life? Anais' husband was as docile as
a child who asks nothing better than to be told what to do; and,

generous and clever woman as she was, she had taken no undue advantage
of his weaknesses. She had taken care of him as you take care of a

cloak; she kept him brushed, neat, and tidy, looked closely after him,
and humored him; and humored, looked after, brushed, kept tidy, and

cared for, M. de Bargeton had come to feel an almost dog-like
affection for his wife. It is so easy to give happiness that costs

nothing! Mme. de Bargeton, knowing that her husband had no pleasure
but in good cheer, saw that he had good dinners; she had pity upon

him, she had never uttered a word of complaint; indeed, there were
people who could not understand that a woman might keep silence

through pride, and argued that M. de Bargeton must possess good
qualities hidden from public view. Mme. de Bargeton had drilled him

into military subordination; he yielded a passiveobedience to his
wife. "Go and call on Monsieur So-and-So or Madame Such-an-One," she

would say, and he went forthwith, like a soldier at the word of
command. He stood at attention in her presence, and waited motionless

for his orders.
There was some talk about this time of nominating the mute gentleman

for a deputy. Lucien as yet had not lifted the veil which hid such an
unimaginable character; indeed, he had scarcely frequented the house

long enough. M. de Bargeton, spread at full length in his great chair,
appeared to see and understand all that was going on; his silence

added to his dignity, and his figure inspired Lucien with a prodigious
awe. It is the wont of imaginative natures to magnify everything, or

to find a soul to inhabit every shape; and Lucien took this gentleman,
not for a granite guard-post, but for a formidable sphinx, and thought

it necessary to conciliate him.
"I am the first comer," he said, bowing with more respect than people

usually showed the worthy man.
"That is natural enough," said M. de Bargeton.

Lucien took the remark for an epigram; the lady's husband was jealous,
he thought; he reddened under it, looked in the glass and tried to

give himself a countenance.
"You live in L'Houmeau," said M. de Bargeton, "and people who live a

long way off always come earlier than those who live near by."
"What is the reason of that?" asked Lucien politely.

"I don't know," answered M. de Bargeton, relapsing into immobility.
"You have not cared to find out," Lucien began again; "any one who

could make an observation could discover the cause."
"Ah!" said M. de Bargeton, "final causes! Eh! eh! . . ."

The conversation came to a dead stop; Lucien racked his brains to
resuscitate it.

"Mme. de Bargeton is dressing, no doubt," he began, shuddering at the
silliness of the question.

"Yes, she is dressing," her husband naturally answered.
Lucien looked up at the ceiling and vainly tried to think of something

else to say. As his eyes wandered over the gray painted joists and the
spaces of plaster between, he saw, not without qualms, that the little

chandelier with the old-fashioned cut-glass pendants had been stripped
of its gauze covering and filled with wax candles. All the covers had

been removed from the furniture, and the faded flowered silk damask
had come to light. These preparations meant something extraordinary.

The poet looked at his boots, and misgivings about his costume arose
in his mind. Grown stupid with dismay, he turned and fixed his eyes on

a Japanese jar standing on a begarlanded console table of the time of
Louis Quinze; then, recollecting that he must conciliate Mme. de

Bargeton's husband, he tried to find out if the good gentleman had a
hobby of any sort in which he might be humored.

"You seldom leave the city, monsieur?" he began, returning to M. de
Bargeton.

"Very seldom."
Silence again. M. de Bargeton watched Lucien's slightest movements

like a suspicious cat; the young man's presence disturbed him. Each
was afraid of the other.

"Can he feel suspicious of my attentions?" thought Lucien; "he seems
to be anything but friendly."

Lucien was not a little embarrassed by the uneasy glances that the
other gave him as he went to and fro, when luckily for him, the old

man-servant (who wore livery for the occasion) announced "M. du
Chatelet." The Baron came in, very much at ease, greeted his friend

Bargeton, and favored Lucien with the little nod then in vogue, which
the poet in his mind called purse-proud impertinence.

Sixte du Chatelet appeared in a pair of dazzling white trousers with
invisible straps that kept them in shape. He wore pumps and thread