“Michel did well to love her,” replied d’Arthez; “she is, indeed, an extraordinary woman.” “Very extraordinary,” replied Rastignac, dryly. “By the tone of your voice I should judge you were in love with her already. You will be in her house within three days; and I am too old a denizen of Paris not to know what will be the upshot of that. Well, my dear Daniel, I do entreat you not to allow yourself to be drawn into any confusion of interests, so to speak. Love the princess if you feel any love for her in your heart, but keep an eye on your fortune. She has never taken or asked a penny from any man on earth, she is far too much of a d’Uxelles and a Cadignan for that; but, to my knowledge, she has not only spent her own fortune, which was very considerable, but she has made others waste millions. How? why? by what means? No one knows; she doesn’t know herself. I myself saw her swallow up, some thirteen years ago, the entire fortune of a charming young fellow, and that of an old notary, in twenty months.” “Thirteen years ago!” exclaimed d’Arthez,--“why, how old is she now?” “Didn’t you see, at dinner,” replied Rastignac, laughing, “her son, the Duc de Maufrigneuse. That young man is nineteen years old; nineteen and seventeen make--” “Thirty-six!” cried the amazed author. “I gave her twenty.” “She’ll accept them,” said Rastignac; “but don’t be uneasy, she will always be twenty to you. You are about to enter the most fantastic of worlds. Good-night, here you are at home,” said the baron, as they entered the rue de Bellefond, where d’Arthez lived in a pretty little house of his own. “We shall meet at Mademoiselle des Touches’s in the course of the week.” CHAPTER III. THE PRINCESS GOES TO WORK