“Yesterday evening,” Mme Hugon was saying, “Georges took me to the play.  Yes, we went to the Varietes, where I certainly had not set foot for the last ten years.  That child adores music.  As to me, I wasn’t in the least amused, but he was so happy!  They put extraordinary pieces on the stage nowadays.  Besides, music delights me very little, I confess.”

“What!  You don’t love music, madame?” cried Mme du Joncquoy, lifting her eyes to heaven.  “Is it possible there should be people who don’t love music?”

The exclamation of surprise was general.  No one had dropped a single word concerning the performance at the Varietes, at which the good Mme Hugon had not understood any of the allusions.  The ladies knew the piece but said nothing about it, and with that they plunged into the realm of sentiment and began discussing the masters in a tone of refined and ecstatical admiration.  Mme du Joncquoy was not fond of any of them save Weber, while Mme Chantereau stood up for the Italians.  The ladies’ voices had turned soft and languishing, and in front of the hearth one might have fancied one’s self listening in meditative, religious retirement to the faint, discreet music of a little chapel.

“Now let’s see,” murmured Vandeuvres, bringing Fauchery back into the middle of the drawing room, “notwithstanding it all, we must invent a woman for tomorrow.  Shall we ask Steiner about it?”

“Oh, when Steiner’s got hold of a woman,” said the journalist, “it’s because Paris has done with her.”

Vandeuvres, however, was searching about on every side.

“Wait a bit,” he continued, “the other day I met Foucarmont with a charming blonde.  I’ll go and tell him to bring her.”

And he called to Foucarmont.  They exchanged a few words rapidly.  There must have been some sort of complication, for both of them, moving carefully forward and stepping over the dresses of the ladies, went off in quest of another young man with whom they continued the discussion in the embrasure of a window.  Fauchery was left to himself and had just decided to proceed to the hearth, where Mme du Joncquoy was announcing that she never heard Weber played without at the same time seeing lakes, forests and sunrises over landscapes steeped in dew, when a hand touched his shoulder and a voice behind him remarked: 

“It’s not civil of you.”

“What d’you mean?” he asked, turning round and recognizing La Faloise.

“Why, about that supper tomorrow.  You might easily have got me invited.”

Fauchery was at length about to state his reasons when Vandeuvres came back to tell him: 

“It appears it isn’t a girl of Foucarmont’s.  It’s that man’s flame out there.  She won’t be able to come.  What a piece of bad luck!  But all the same I’ve pressed Foucarmont into the service, and he’s going to try to get Louise from the Palais-Royal.”

“Is it not true, Monsieur de Vandeuvres,” asked Mme Chantereau, raising her voice, “that Wagner’s music was hissed last Sunday?”