That evening at all the gatherings it was told gravely:—­

“Mademoiselle Cormon has gone.”

Or:—­

“So you have really let Mademoiselle Cormon go.”

The Wednesday chosen by Suzanne to make known her scandal happened to be this farewell Wednesday,—­a day on which Mademoiselle Cormon drove Josette distracted on the subject of packing.  During the morning, therefore, things had been said and done in the town which lent the utmost interest to this farewell meeting.  Madame Granson had gone the round of a dozen houses while the old maid was deliberating on the things she needed for the journey; and the malicious Chevalier de Valois was playing piquet with Mademoiselle Armande, sister of a distinguished old marquis, and the queen of the salon of the aristocrats.  If it was not uninteresting to any one to see what figure the seducer would cut that evening, it was all important for the chevalier and Madame Granson to know how Mademoiselle Cormon would take the news in her double capacity of marriageable woman and president of the Maternity Society.  As for the innocent du Bousquier, he was taking a walk on the promenade, and beginning to suspect that Suzanne had tricked him; this suspicion confirmed him in his principles as to women.

On gala days the table was laid at Mademoiselle Cormon’s about half-past three o’clock.  At that period the fashionable people of Alencon dined at four.  Under the Empire they still dined as in former times at half-past two; but then they supped!  One of the pleasures which Mademoiselle Cormon valued most was (without meaning any malice, although the fact certainly rests on egotism) the unspeakable satisfaction she derived from seeing herself dressed as mistress of the house to receive her guests.  When she was thus under arms a ray of hope would glide into the darkness of her heart; a voice told her that nature had not so abundantly provided for her in vain, and that some man, brave and enterprising, would surely present himself.  Her desire was refreshed like her person; she contemplated herself in her heavy stuffs with a sort of intoxication, and this satisfaction continued when she descended the stairs to cast her redoubtable eye on the salon, the dinner-table, and the boudoir.  She would then walk about with the naive contentment of the rich,—­who remember at all moments that they are rich and will never want for anything.  She looked at her eternal furniture, her curiosities, her lacquers, and said to herself that all these fine things wanted was a master.  After admiring the dining-room, and the oblong dinner-table, on which was spread a snow-white cloth adorned with twenty covers placed at equal distances; after verifying the squadron of bottles she had ordered to be brought up, and which all bore honorable labels; after carefully verifying the names written on little bits of paper in the trembling handwriting of the abbe (the only duty he assumed in the household, and one which gave