A woman, even a prude, is never long embarrassed, however difficult
may be the position in which she finds herself; she seems always to
have on hand the fig-leaf which our mother Eve bequeathed to her.
Consequently, when Eugene, interpreting, in favor of his vanity, the
refusal to admit him, bowed to Madame de Listomere in a tolerably
intentional manner, she veiled her thoughts behind one of those
feminine smiles which are more impenetrable than the words of a king.
"Are you unwell, madame? You denied yourself to visitors."
"I am well, monsieur."
"Perhaps you were going out?"
"Not at all."
"You expected some one?"
"No one."
"If my visit is indiscreet you must blame Monsieur le marquis. I had
already accepted your mysterious denial, when he himself came up, and
introduced me into the sanctuary."
"Monsieur de Listomere is not in my confidence on this point. It is
not always prudent to put a husband in possession of certain secrets."
The firm and gentle tones in which the marquise said these words, and
the imposing glance which she cast upon Rastignac made him aware that
he had posed in his cravat a trifle prematurely.
"Madame, I understand you," he said, laughing. "I ought, therefore, to
be doubly thankful that Monsieur le marquis met me; he affords me an
opportunity to offer you excuses which might be full of danger were
you not kindness itself.
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