saw that he had good dinners; she had pity upon him, she had never uttered a word of complaint; indeed, there were people who could not understand that a woman might keep silence through pride, and argued that M. de Bargeton must possess good qualities hidden from public view. Mme. de Bargeton had drilled him into military subordination; he yielded a passive obedience to his wife. “Go and call on Monsieur So-and-So or Madame Such-an-One,” she would say, and he went forthwith, like a soldier at the word of command. He stood at attention in her presence, and waited motionless for his orders. There was some talk about this time of nominating the mute gentleman for a deputy. Lucien as yet had not lifted the veil which hid such an unimaginable character; indeed, he had scarcely frequented the house long enough. M. de Bargeton, spread at full length in his great chair, appeared to see and understand all that was going on; his silence added to his dignity, and his figure inspired Lucien with a prodigious awe. It is the wont of imaginative natures to magnify everything, or to find a soul to inhabit every shape; and Lucien took this gentleman, not for a granite guard-post, but for a formidable sphinx, and thought it necessary to conciliate him. “I am the first comer,” he said, bowing with more respect than people usually showed the worthy man. “That is natural enough,” said M. de Bargeton. Lucien took the remark for an epigram; the lady’s husband was jealous, he thought; he reddened under it, looked in the glass and tried to give himself a countenance. “You live in L’Houmeau,” said M. de Bargeton, “and people who live a long way off always come earlier than those who live near by.” “What is the reason of that?” asked Lucien politely. “I don’t know,” answered M. de Bargeton, relapsing into immobility. “You have not cared to find out,” Lucien began again; “any one who could make an observation could discover the cause.” “Ah!” said M. de Bargeton, “final causes! Eh! eh!...” The conversation came to a dead stop; Lucien racked his brains to resuscitate it. “Mme. de Bargeton is dressing, no doubt,” he began, shuddering at the silliness of the question. “Yes, she is dressing,” her husband naturally answered.