There is something in the art of wearing a hat that escapes definition.  Tilted too far to the back of the head, it imparts a bold expression to the face; bring it too far forward, it gives you a sinister look; tipped to one side, it has a jaunty air; a well-dressed woman wears her hat exactly as she means to wear it, and exactly at the right angle.  Mme. de Bargeton had solved this curious problem at sight.  A dainty girdle outlined her slender waist.  She had adopted her cousin’s gestures and tricks of manner; and now, as she sat by Mme. d’Espard’s side, she played with a tiny scent bottle that dangled by a slender gold chain from one of her fingers, displayed a little well-gloved hand without seeming to do so.  She had modeled herself on Mme. d’Espard without mimicking her; the Marquise had found a cousin worthy of her, and seemed to be proud of her pupil.

The men and women on the footways all gazed at the splendid carriage, with the bearings of the d’Espards and Blamont-Chauvrys upon the panels.  Lucien was amazed at the number of greetings received by the cousins; he did not know that the “all Paris,” which consists in some score of salons, was well aware already of the relationship between the ladies.  A little group of young men on horseback accompanied the carriage in the Bois; Lucien could recognize de Marsay and Rastignac among them, and could see from their gestures that the pair of coxcombs were complimenting Mme. de Bargeton upon her transformation.  Mme. d’Espard was radiant with health and grace.  So her indisposition was simply a pretext for ridding herself of him, for there had been no mention of another day!

The wrathful poet went towards the caleche; he walked slowly, waited till he came in full sight of the two ladies, and made them a bow.  Mme. de Bargeton would not see him; but the Marquise put up her eyeglass, and deliberately cut him.  He had been disowned by the sovereign lords of Angouleme, but to be disowned by society in Paris was another thing; the booby-squires by doing their utmost to mortify Lucien admitted his power and acknowledged him as a man; for Mme. d’Espard he had positively no existence.  This was a sentence, it was a refusal of justice.  Poor poet! a deadly cold seized on him when he saw de Marsay eying him through his glass; and when the Parisian lion let that optical instrument fall, it dropped in so singular a fashion that Lucien thought of the knife-blade of the guillotine.

The caleche went by.  Rage and a craving for vengeance took possession of his slighted soul.  If Mme. de Bargeton had been in his power, he could have cut her throat at that moment; he was a Fouquier-Tinville gloating over the pleasure of sending Mme. d’Espard to the scaffold.  If only he could have put de Marsay to the torture with refinements of savage cruelty!  Canalis went by on horseback, bowing to the prettiest women, his dress elegant, as became the most dainty of poets.