“Ah,” she said to herself, “if I were a marquise the man who wrote this would perhaps have paid some attention to me, and my name would perhaps be there.  I wonder if it’s fun to see one’s name printed in a paper?”

And while addressing this question to herself, she turned the page, and continued reading: 

—­the lively Baroness of Myrvoix, etc.  We have to announce the appearance of a new star which has abruptly burst forth in the Parisian constellation.  The house was in ecstasy over a strange and disturbing blonde, whose dark steel eyes, and whose shoulders—­ah, what shoulders!  The shoulders were the event of the evening.  From all quarters one heard asked, “Who is she?” “Who is she?” “To whom do those divine shoulders belong?” “To whom?” We know, and our readers will doubtless thank us for telling them the name of this ideal wonder.  It is Mme. Derline.

Her name!  She had read her name!  She was dazzled.  Her eyes clouded.  All the letters in the alphabet began to dance wildly on the paper.  Then they calmed down, stopped, and regained their places.  She was able to find her name, and continue reading;

It is Mme. Derline, the wife of one of the most agreeable and richest lawyers in Paris.  The Prince of Nerins, whose word has so much weight in such matters, said yesterday evening to every one who would listen, “She is the most beautiful woman in Paris.”  We are absolutely of that opinion.

A single paragraph, and that was all.  It was enough, it was too much!  Mme Derline was seized with a feeling of undefinable confusion.  It was a combination of fear and pleasure, of joy and trouble, of satisfied vanity and wounded modesty.  Her dressing-gown was a little open; she folded it over with a sort of violence, and crossed it upon, her feet, abruptly drawn back towards the arm-chair.  She had a feeling of nudity.  It seemed to her that all Paris was there, in her room, and that the Prince de Nerins was in front saying to all Paris, “Look, look!  She is the most beautiful woman in Paris.”

The Prince of Nerins!  She knew the name well, for she read with keen interest in the papers all the articles entitled “Parisian Life,” “High Life,” “Society Echoes,” etc.; and all the society columns signed “Mousseline,” “Fanfreluche,” “Brimborion,” “Veloutine”; all the accounts of great marriages, great balls, of great comings out, and of great charity sales.  The name of the prince often figured in these articles, and he was always quoted as supreme arbiter of Parisian elegances.