The disciples dispersed, and went abroad spreading the great news.

Mme. Derline had been admirably brought up by an irreproachable mother; she had been taught that she ought to get up in the morning, keep a strict account of her expenses, not go to a great dress-maker, believe in God, love her husband, visit the poor, and never spend but half her income in order to prepare dowries for her daughters.  Mme. Derline performed all these duties.  She led a peaceful and serene life in the old house (in the Rue Dragon) which had sheltered, since 1825, three generations of Derlines; the husbands had all three been lawyers, the wives had all three been virtuous.  The three generations had passed there a happy and moderate life, never having any great pleasures, but, also, never being very bored.

The next day at eight o’clock in the morning Mme. Derline awoke with an uneasy feeling.  She had passed a troubled night—­she, who usually slept like a child.  The evening before at the opera, in the box, Mme. Derline had vaguely felt that something was going on around her.  And during the entire last act an opera-glass, obstinately fixed on her—­the prince’s opera-glass—­had thrown her into a certain agitation, not disagreeable, however.  She wore a low dress—­too much so, in her mother’s opinion—­and two or three times, under the fixity of that opera-glass, she had raised the shoulder-straps of her dress.

So, after opening her eyes, Mme. Derline reclosed them lazily, indolently, with thoughts floating between dreamland and reality.  She again saw the opera-house, and a hundred, two hundred, five hundred opera-glasses obstinately fixed on her—­on her alone.

The maid entered, placed a tray on a little table, made up a big fire in the fire-place, and went away.  There was a cup of chocolate and the morning paper on the tray, the same as every morning.  Then Mme. Derline courageously got up, slipped her little bare feet into fur slippers, wrapped herself in a white cashmere dressing-gown, and crouched shivering in an arm-chair by the fire.  She sipped the chocolate, and slightly burned herself; she must wait a little while.  She put down the cup, took up the paper, unfolded it, and rapidly ran her eye over the six columns of the front page.  At the bottom, quite at the bottom of the sixth column, were the following lines: 

Last evening at the opera there was a very brilliant performance of “Sigurd.”  Society was well represented there; the beautiful Duchess of Montaiglon, the pretty Countess Verdiniere of Lardac, the marvellous Marquise of Muriel, the lively Baroness of—­

To read the name of the baroness it was necessary to turn the page.  Mme. Derline did not turn it; she was thinking, reflecting.  The evening before she had amused herself by having Palmer point out to her the social leaders in the house, and it so happened that the banker had pointed out to her the marvellous marquise.  And Mme. Derline—­who was twenty-two—­raised herself a little to look in the glass.  She exchanged a slight smile with a young blonde, who was very pink and white.