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 trills of laughter now and again interrupted the gravity of their talk.  The two lamps on the chimney piece, which had shades of rose-colored lace, cast a feeble light over them while on scattered pieces of furniture there burned but three other lamps, so that the great drawing room remained in soft shadow.

Steiner was getting bored.  He was describing to Fauchery an escapade of that little Mme de Chezelles, whom he simply referred to as Leonide.  “A blackguard woman,” he said, lowering his voice behind the ladies’ armchairs.  Fauchery looked at her as she sat quaintly perched, in her voluminous ball dress of pale blue satin, on the corner of her armchair.  She looked as slight and impudent as a boy, and he ended by feeling astonished at seeing her there.  People comported themselves better at Caroline Hequet’s, whose mother had arranged her house on serious principles.  Here was a perfect subject for an article.  What a strange world was this world of Paris!  The most rigid circles found themselves invaded.  Evidently that silent Theophile Venot, who contented himself by smiling and showing his ugly teeth, must have been a legacy from the late countess.  So, too, must have been such ladies of mature age as Mme Chantereau and Mme du Joncquoy, besides four or five old gentlemen who sat motionless in corners.  The Count Muffat attracted to the house a series of functionaries, distinguished by the immaculate personal appearance which was at that time required of the men at the Tuileries.  Among others there was the chief clerk, who still sat solitary in the middle of the room with his closely shorn cheeks, his vacant glance and his coat so tight