good looks, brought into relief by his title, would be like a diamond in a rich setting; M. Chardon would not be so much as noticed.  WE have not invented these notions; they are everywhere in the world, even among the burgeois.  You are turning your back on fortune at this minute.  Do you see that good-looking young man?  He is the Vicomte Felix de Vandenesse, one of the King’s private secretaries.  The King is fond enough of young men of talent, and Vandenesse came from the provinces with baggage nearly as light as yours.  You are a thousand times cleverer than he; but do you belong to a great family, have you a name?  You know des Lupeaulx; his name is very much like yours, for he was born a Chardin; well, he would not sell his little farm of Lupeaulx for a million, he will be Comte des Lupeaulx some day, and perhaps his grandson may be a duke.  —­You have made a false start; and if you continue in that way, it will be all over with you.  See how much wiser M. Emile Blondet has been!  He is engaged on a Government newspaper; he is well looked on by those in authority; he can afford to mix with Liberals, for he holds sound opinions; and soon or later he will succeed.  But then he understood how to choose his opinions and his protectors.

“Your charming neighbor” (Mme. d’Espard glanced at Mme. de Montcornet) “was a Troisville; there are two peers of France in the family and two deputies.  She made a wealthy marriage with her name; she sees a great deal of society at her house; she has influence, she will move the political world for young M. Blondet.  Where will a Coralie take you?  In a few years’ time you will be hopelessly in debt and weary of pleasure.  You have chosen badly in love, and you are arranging your life ill.  The woman whom you delight to wound was at the Opera the other night, and this was how she spoke of you.  She deplored the way in which you were throwing away your talent and the prime of youth; she was thinking of you, and not of herself, all the while.”

“Ah! if you were only telling me the truth, madame!” cried Lucien.

“What object should I have in telling lies?” returned the Marquise, with a glance of cold disdain which annihilated him.  He was so dashed by it, that the conversation dropped, for the Marquise was offended, and said no more.

Lucien was nettled by her silence, but he felt that it was due to his own clumsiness, and promised himself that he would repair his error.  He turned to Mme. de Montcornet and talked to her of Blondet, extolling that young writer for her benefit.  The Countess was gracious to him, and asked him (at a sign from Mme. d’Espard) to spend an evening at her house.  It was to be a small and quiet gathering to which only friends were invited—­Mme. de Bargeton would be there in spite of her mourning; Lucien would be pleased, she was sure, to meet Mme. de Bargeton.

“Mme. la Marquise says that all the wrong is on my side,” said Lucien; “so surely it rests with her cousin, does it not, to decide whether she will meet me?”