Mme. d’Espard turned to Mme. de Bargeton, put up her fan, and said, “My dear, tell me if your protege’s name is really M. de Rubempre?”

“He has assumed his mother’s name,” said Anais, uneasily.

“But who was his father?”

“His father’s name was Chardon.”

“And what was this Chardon?”

“A druggist.”

“My dear friend, I felt quite sure that all Paris could not be laughing at any one whom I took up.  I do not care to stay here when wags come in in high glee because there is an apothecary’s son in my box.  If you will follow my advice, we will leave it, and at once.”

Mme. d’Espard’s expression was insolent enough; Lucien was at a loss to account for her change of countenance.  He thought that his waistcoat was in bad taste, which was true; and that his coat looked like a caricature of the fashion, which was likewise true.  He discerned, in bitterness of soul, that he must put himself in the hands of an expert tailor, and vowed that he would go the very next morning to the most celebrated artist in Paris.  On Monday he would hold his own with the men in the Marquise’s house.

Yet, lost in thought though he was, he saw the third act to an end, and, with his eyes fixed on the gorgeous scene upon the stage, dreamed out his dream of Mme. d’Espard.  He was in despair over her sudden coldness; it gave a strange check to the ardent reasoning through which he advanced upon this new love, undismayed by the immense difficulties in the way, difficulties which he saw and resolved to conquer.  He roused himself from these deep musings to look once more at his new idol, turned his head, and saw that he was alone; he had heard a faint rustling sound, the door closed—­Madame d’Espard had taken her cousin with her.  Lucien was surprised to the last degree by the sudden desertion; he did not think long about it, however, simply because it was inexplicable.

When the carriage was rolling along the Rue de Richelieu on the way to the Faubourg Saint-Honore, the Marquise spoke to her cousin in a tone of suppressed irritation.

“My dear child, what are you thinking about?  Pray wait till an apothecary’s son has made a name for himself before you trouble yourself about him.  The Duchesse de Chaulieu does not acknowledge Canalis even now, and he is famous and a man of good family.  This young fellow is neither your son nor your lover, I suppose?” added the haughty dame, with a keen, inquisitive glance at her cousin.

“How fortunate for me that I kept the little scapegrace at a distance!” thought Madame de Bargeton.