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-Honoré, 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.
“Very well,” continued the Marquise, taking the expression in her cousin’s eyes for an answer, “drop him, I beg of you. Taking an illustrious name in that way!—Why, it is a piece of impudence that will meet with its desserts in society. It is his mother’s name, I dare say; but just remember, dear, that the King alone can confer, by a special ordinance, the title of de Rubempré on the son of a daughter of the house. If she made a mésalliance, the favor would be enormous, only to be granted to vast wealth, or conspicuous services, or very powerful influence. The young man looks like a shopman in his Sunday suit; evidently he is neither wealthy nor noble; he has a fine head, but he seems to me to be very silly; he has no idea what to do, and has nothing to say for himself; in fact, he has no breeding. How came you to take him up?”
Mme. de Bargeton renounced Lucien as Lucien himself had renounced her; a ghastly fear lest her cousin should learn the manner of her journey shot through her mind.
“Dear cousin, I am in despair that I have compromised you.”
“People do not compromise me,” Mme. d’Espard said, smiling; “I am only thinking of you.”
“But you have asked him to dine with you on Monday.”