“‘Not quite so fast,’ urged the prudent Gascon; ‘Foedora has all the sagacity natural to a profoundly selfish woman; perhaps she may have taken your measure while you still coveted only her money and her splendor; in spite of all your care, she could have read you through and through. She can dissemble far too well to let any dissimulation pass undetected. I fear,’ he went on, ‘that I have brought you into a bad way. In spite of her cleverness and her tact, she seems to me a domineering sort of person, like every woman who can only feel pleasure through her brain. Happiness for her lies entirely in a comfortable life and in social pleasures; her sentiment is only assumed; she will make you miserable; you will be her head footman.’
“He spoke to the deaf. I broke in upon him, disclosing, with an affectation of light-heartedness, the state of my finances.
“‘Yesterday evening,’ he rejoined, ‘luck ran against me, and that carried off all my available cash. But for that trivial mishap, I would gladly have shared my purse with you. But let us go and breakfast at the restaurant; perhaps there is good counsel in oysters.’
“He dressed, and had his tilbury brought round. We went to the Cafe de Paris like a couple of millionaires, armed with all the audacious impertinence of the speculator whose capital is imaginary. That devil of a Gascon quite disconcerted me by the coolness of his manners and his absolute self-possession. While we were taking coffee after an excellent and well-ordered repast, a young dandy entered, who did not escape Rastignac. He had been nodding here and there among the crowd to this or that young man, distinguished both by personal attractions and elegant attire, and now he said to me:
“‘Here’s your man,’ as he beckoned to this gentleman with a wonderful cravat, who seemed to be looking for a table that suited his ideas.
“‘That rogue has been decorated for bringing out books that he doesn’t understand a word of,’ whispered Rastignac; ‘he is a chemist, a historian, a novelist, and a political writer; he has gone halves, thirds, or quarters in the authorship of I don’t know how many plays, and he is as ignorant as Dom Miguel’s mule. He is not a man so much as a name, a label that the public is familiar with. So he would do well to avoid shops inscribed with the motto, “Ici l’on peut ecrire soi-meme.” He is acute enough to deceive an entire congress of diplomatists. In a couple of words, he is a moral half-caste, not quite a fraud, nor entirely genuine. But, hush! he has succeeded already; nobody asks anything further, and every one calls him an illustrious man.’
“‘Well, my esteemed and excellent friend, and how may Your Intelligence be?’ So Rastignac addressed the stranger as he sat down at a neighboring table.
“‘Neither well nor ill; I am overwhelmed with work. I have all the necessary materials for some very curious historical memoirs in my hands, and I cannot find any one to whom I can ascribe them. It worries me, for I shall have to be quick about it. Memoirs are falling out of fashion.’
“‘What are the memoirs—contemporaneous, ancient, or memoirs of the court, or what?’
“‘They relate to the Necklace affair.’