“I am removing her from the middle class,” he said; “I owe it to Palmer, who is one of the best fellows in the world.”

The prince found the banker alone in a lower box.

“What is the name—­the name of that blonde in the Sainte Mesme’s box?”

“Mme. Derline.”

“Is there a M. Derline?”

“Certainly, a lawyer—­my lawyer; the Sainte Mesme’s lawyer.  And if you want to see Mme. Derline close to, come to my ball next Thursday.  She will be there—­”

The wife of a lawyer!.  She was only the wife of a lawyer!  The prince sat down in the front of the box, opposite Mme. Derline, and while looking at that lawyeress he was thinking.  “Have I,” he said to himself, “sufficient credit, sufficient power, to make of Mme. Derline the most beautiful woman in Paris?”

For there was always a most beautiful woman in Paris, and it was he, Prince Agenor, who flattered himself that he could discover, proclaim, crown, and consecrate that most beautiful woman in Paris.  Launch Mme. Derline in society!  Why not?  He had never launched any one from the middle class.  The enterprise would be new, amusing, and bold.  He looked at Mme. Derline through his opera-glass, and discovered thousands of beauties and perfections in her delightful face.

After the opera, the prince, during the exit, placed himself at the bottom of the great staircase.  He had enlisted two of his friends.  “Come,” he had said to them, “I will show you the most beautiful woman in Paris.”  While he was speaking, two steps away from the prince was an alert young man who was attached to a morning paper, a very widely-read paper.  The young man had sharp ears, he caught on the fly the phrase of the Prince Agenor, whose high social position he knew; he succeeded in keeping close to the prince, and when Mme. Derline passed, the young reporter had the gift of hearing the conversation, without losing a word, of the three brilliant noblemen.  A quarter of an hour later he arrived at the office of the paper.

“Is there time,” he asked, “to write a dozen lines in the Society Note-book?”

“Yes, but hurry.”

The young man was a quick writer; the fifteen lines were done in the twinkling of an eye.  They brought seven francs fifty to the reporter, but cost M. Derline a little more than that.

During this time Prince Agenor, seated in the club at the whist-table, was saying, while shuffling the cards: 

“This evening at the opera there was a marvellous woman, a certain Mme. Derline.  She is the most beautiful woman in Paris!”

The following morning, in the gossip-corner of the Bois, in the spring sunshine, the prince, surrounded by a little group of respectful disciples, was solemnly delivering from the back of his roan mare the following opinion: 

“Listen well to what I say.  The most beautiful woman in Paris is a certain Mme. Derline.  This star will be visible Thursday evening at the Palmer’s.  Go, and don’t forget the name—­Mme. Derline.”