LITMIR.BIZ

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sepulchral drawing room of hers, which exhaled odors suggestive of being in a church, spoke as plainly as words could of the iron hand, the austere mode of existence, that weighed her down. There was nothing suggestive of her own personality in that ancient abode, black with the damps of years. It was Muffat who made himself felt there, who dominated his surroundings with his devotional training, his penances and his fasts. But the sight of the little old gentleman with the black teeth and subtle smile whom he suddenly discovered in his armchair behind the group of ladies afforded him a yet more decisive argument. He knew the personage. It was Theophile Venot, a retired lawyer who had made a specialty of church cases. He had left off practice with a handsome fortune and was now leading a sufficiently mysterious existence, for he was received everywhere, treated with great deference and even somewhat feared, as though he had been the representative of a mighty force, an occult power, which was felt to be at his back. Nevertheless, his behavior was very humble. He was churchwarden at the Madeleine Church and had simply accepted the post of deputy mayor at the town house of the Ninth Arrondissement in order, as he said, to have something to do in his leisure time. Deuce take it, the countess was well guarded; there was nothing to be done in that quarter.

      “You're right, it's enough to make one kick the bucket here,” said Fauchery to his cousin when he had made good his escape from the circle of ladies. “We'll hook it!”

      But Steiner, deserted at last by the Count Muffat and the deputy, came up in a fury. Drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, and he grumbled huskily:

      “Gad! Let 'em tell me nothing, if nothing they want to tell me. I shall find people who will talk.”

      Then he pushed the journalist into a corner and, altering his tone, said in accents of victory:

      “It's tomorrow, eh? I'm of the party, my bully!”

      “Indeed!” muttered Fauchery with some astonishment.

      “You didn't know about it. Oh, I had lots of bother to find her at home. Besides, Mignon never would leave me alone.”

      “But they're to be there, are the Mignons.”

      “Yes, she told me so. In fact, she did receive my visit, and she invited me. Midnight punctually, after the play.”

      The banker was beaming. He winked and added with a peculiar emphasis on the words:

      “You've worked it, eh?”

      “Eh, what?” said Fauchery, pretending not to understand him. “She wanted to thank me for my article, so she came and called on me.”

      “Yes, yes. You fellows are fortunate. You get rewarded. By the by, who pays the piper tomorrow?”

      The journalist made a slight outward movement with his arms, as though he would intimate that no one had ever been able to find out. But Vandeuvres called to Steiner, who knew M. de Bismarck. Mme. du Joncquoy had almost convinced herself of the truth of her suppositions; she concluded with these words:

      “He gave me an unpleasant impression. I think his face is evil. But I am quite willing to believe that he has a deal of wit. It would account for his successes.”

      “Without doubt,” said the banker with a faint smile. He was a Jew from Frankfort.

      Meanwhile La Faloise at last made bold to question his cousin. He followed him up and got inside his guard:

      “There's supper at a woman's tomorrow evening? With which of them, eh? With which of them?”

      Fauchery motioned to him that they were overheard and must respect the conventions here. The door had just been opened anew, and an old lady had come in, followed by a young man in whom the journalist recognized the truant schoolboy, perpetrator of the famous and as yet unforgotten “tres chic” of the Blonde Venus first night. This lady's arrival caused a stir among the company. The Countess Sabine had risen briskly from her seat in order to go and greet her, and she had taken both her hands in hers and addressed her as her “dear Madame Hugon.” Seeing that his cousin viewed this little episode with some curiosity, La Faloise sought to arouse his interest and in a few brief phrases explained the position. Mme. Hugon, widow of a notary, lived in retirement at Les Fondettes, an old estate of her family's in the neighborhood of Orleans, but she also kept up a small establishment in Paris in a house belonging to her in the Rue de Richelieu and was now passing some weeks there in order to settle her youngest son, who was reading the law and in his “first year.” In old times she had been a dear friend of the Marquise de Chouard and had assisted at the birth of the countess, who, prior to her marriage, used to stay at her house for months at a time and even now was quite familiarly treated by her.

      “I have brought Georges to see you,” said Mme. Hugon to Sabine. “He's grown, I trust.”

      The young man with his clear eyes and the fair curls which suggested a girl dressed up as a boy bowed easily to the countess and reminded her of a bout of battledore and shuttlecock they had had together two years ago at Les Fondettes.

      “Philippe is not in Paris?” asked Count Muffat.

      “Dear me, no!” replied the old lady. “He is always in garrison at Bourges.” She had seated herself and began talking with considerable pride of her eldest son, a great big fellow who, after enlisting in a fit of waywardness, had of late very rapidly attained the rank of lieutenant. All the ladies behaved to her with respectful sympathy, and conversation was resumed in a tone at once more amiable and more refined. Fauchery, at sight of that respectable Mme. Hugon, that motherly face lit up with such a kindly smile beneath its broad tresses of white hair, thought how foolish he had been to suspect the Countess Sabine even for an instant.

      Nevertheless, the big chair with the red silk upholsteries in which the countess sat had attracted his attention. Its style struck him as crude, not to say fantastically suggestive, in that dim old drawing room. Certainly it was not the count who had inveigled thither that nest of voluptuous idleness. One might have described it as an experiment, marking the birth of an appetite and of an enjoyment. Then he forgot where he was, fell into brown study and in thought even harked back to that vague confidential announcement imparted to him one evening in the dining room of a restaurant. Impelled by a sort of sensuous curiosity, he had always wanted an introduction into the Muffats' circle, and now that his friend was in Mexico through all eternity, who could tell what might happen? “We shall see,” he thought. It was a folly, doubtless, but the idea kept tormenting him; he felt himself drawn on and his animal nature aroused. The big chair had a rumpled look—its nether cushions had been tumbled, a fact which now amused him.

      “Well, shall we be off?” asked La Faloise, mentally vowing that once outside he would find out the name of the woman with whom people were going to sup.

      “All in good time,” replied Fauchery.

      But he was no longer in any hurry and excused himself on the score of the invitation he had been commissioned to give and had as yet not found a convenient opportunity to mention. The ladies were chatting about an assumption of the veil, a very touching ceremony by which the whole of Parisian society had for the last three days been greatly moved. It was the eldest daughter of the Baronne de Fougeray, who, under stress of an irresistible vocation, had just entered the Carmelite Convent. Mme. Chantereau, a distant cousin of the Fougerays, told how the baroness had been obliged to take to her bed the day after the ceremony, so overdone was she with weeping.

      “I had a very good place,” declared Leonide. “I found it interesting.”

      Nevertheless, Mme. Hugon pitied the poor mother. How sad to lose a daughter in such a way!

      “I am accused of being overreligious,” she said in her quiet, frank manner, “but that does not prevent me thinking the children very cruel who obstinately commit such suicide.”

      “Yes, it's a terrible thing,” murmured the countess, shivering a little, as became a chilly person, and huddling herself anew in the depths of her big chair in front of the fire.

      Then the ladies fell into a discussion. But their voices were discreetly attuned, while light

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