“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.”