Mlle. Jacquier was very much amused.  Madame Lyon was a very important person.  Her husband had been associated with the Government for fourteen years until he had died, leaving a fortune behind him, a year before; and Madame Lyon was not only on intimate terms with the Government but made herself useful in every way possible to them.  She was one of the two ladies asked to cooperate with the Government in their great enterprise to wage war on tuberculosis—­Le Comite Central d’Assistance aux Militaires Tuberculeux; and was to open ateliers to teach the men how to learn new trades by which they might sit at home in comfort and support themselves.

And she had her own ouvroir—­“L’Aide Immediate”—­for providing things for the permissionnaires, who came to the door and asked for them.  She ran, with a committee of other ladies, a cafe in Paris, where the permissionnaires or the reformes could go and have their afternoon coffee and smoke all the cigarettes that their devoted patrons provided.  One hundred poilus came here a day, and her ouvroir had already assisted eighteen thousand.  And——­

But by this time I was more interested to meet Madame Lyon than any one in Paris.  As I have said before, a letter or two will open the doors of the noblesse or the “Intellectuals” to any stranger who knows how to behave himself and is no bore, but to get a letter to a member of the bourgeoisie—­I hadn’t even made the attempt, knowing how futile it would be.  If one of them was doing a great work, like Mlle. Javal, I could meet her quite easily through some member of her committee; but when Frenchwomen of this class, which in its almost terrified exclusiveness reminds me only of our own social groups balancing on the very tip of the pyramid and clutching one another lest some intruder topple them off, or cast the faintest shadow on their hard-won prestige, are working in small groups composed of their own friends, I could not meet one of them if I pitched my tent under her windows.

Madame Lyon gave me a naive explanation of her audacity when we finally did meet.  “I am a Jewess,” she said, “and therefore not so bound down by conventions.  You see, we of the Jewish race were suppressed so long that now we have our freedom reaction makes us almost adventurous.”

Besides hastening to tell me of her race she promptly, as if it were a matter of honor, informed me that she was sixty years old!  She looked about forty, her complexion was white and smooth, her nose little and straight, her eyes brilliant.  She dressed in the smartest possible mourning, and with that white ruff across her placid brow—­Oh la la!