M. de Rastignac turned to me. “Are you as incredulous as before?” he smilingly inquired. “I? God forbid, sir, that I should doubt your word.” In reality, however, I knew neither what to think nor what to believe, for I had curiously examined all these people whom my celebrated compatriot had addressed, and who, through M. de Balzac, as well as through their own achievements, were known and liked throughout civilized Europe. With the exception of Bixion, who was thin, poorly dressed, and not decorated, all the others appeared to be in the most flourishing state of health and fortune. Madame Tullia du Bruel was as appetizing as ever, and La Palférine, familiarly leaning on the back of her chair, exposed an ideal shirt and an impossible vest. “Does M. de la Palférine no longer visit Madame de Rochegude?” I inquired. “He is now entirely devoted to Tullia, and asserts that, after all, Du Bruel’s cook is the finest artist in Paris.” “Is Madame de Rochegude still living?” “She sits in that second box to the right.” “Who is with her?” “Conti.” “The celebrated musician?” “Yes, indeed. You remember the song,— ‘Et l’on revient toujours, A ses premiers amours.’” It was with the greatest eagerness that I had turned to look at this artificial blonde, who had been so greatly beloved by the young Baron Calyste du Guénic. (Vide Béatrix.) A lace scarf was twisted about her neck in such a way as to diminish its length. She appeared worn and fatigued; but her figure was a masterpiece of composition, and she offered that compound of light and brilliant drapery, of gauze and crimped hair, of vivacity and calm, which is termed the je ne sais quoi. Conti was also an object of great interest to me. He looked vexed, out of sorts, and bored, and seemed to be meditating on the eternal truth of that aphorism, profound and sombre as an abyss, which teaches that a cigar once out should never be relighted, and an affection once buried should never be exhumed. “Is the Baron de Nucingen here?” I asked. “Nucingen is confined to his bed with the gout; he has not two good months out of the twelve.” “And his wife?” “The baroness no longer goes to the theatre. Religion, charity, and sermons occupy every instant of her time. Her father, Père Goriot, has now a white marble tomb and a perpetual resting-place in the cemetery of Père La Chaise.” “Where is her sister, Madame de Restaud?” “She died a few years ago, legally separated from her husband.” “Pardon my insatiable curiosity,” I said, “but ever since I was old enough to read and think I have not ceased to live with the personages of the ‘Comédie Humaine.’” “I am glad indeed,” he courteously replied, “to be able to answer your questions. Is there anything that you still care to know?”