“M.  Renaud.”

“Oh, it was M. Renaud—­dear M. Renaud!”

Thereupon Mme. Derline was seized with a hearty fit of laughter; so much so that the blond hair, which had been loosely done up, came down and framed the pretty face from which gleamed the dark eyes which could also, when they gave themselves the trouble, look very gentle, very caressing, very loving.

“Oh, it was M. Renaud, the husband of that delightful Mme. Renaud!  Well, do you know what you will do immediately, without losing a minute?  Go to the president of the Tribunal and ask for a divorce.  You will say to him:  ’M.  Aubepin, deliver me from my wife.  Her crime is being pretty, very pretty, too pretty.  I wish another one who is ugly, very ugly, who has Mme. Renaud’s large nose, colossal foot, pointed chin, skinny shoulders, and eternal pimples.’  That’s what you want, isn’t it?  Come, you big stupid, kiss your poor wife, and forgive her for not being a monster.”

As rather lively gestures had illustrated this little speech, the white cashmere dressing-gown had slipped—­slipped a good deal, and had opened, very much opened; the criminal shoulders were within reach of M. Derline’s lips—­he succumbed.  Besides, he too felt the abominable influence of the press.  His wife had never seemed so pretty to him, and, brought back to subjection, M. Derline returned to his study in order to make money for the most beautiful woman in Paris.

A very wise and opportune occupation; for scarcely was Mme. Derline left alone when an idea flashed through her head which was to call forth a very pretty collection of bank-notes from the cash-box of the lawyer of the Rue Dragon.  Mme. Derline had intended wearing to the Palmer’s ball a dress which had already been much seen.  Mme. Derline had kept the dress-maker of her wedding-dress, her mother’s dress-maker, a dress-maker of the Left Bank.  It seemed to her that her new position imposed new duties on her.  She could not appear at the Palmer’s without a dress which had not been seen, and stamped with a well-known name.  She ordered the carriage in the afternoon, and resolutely gave her coachman the address of one of the most illustrious dress-makers in Paris.  She arrived a little agitated, and to reach the great artist was obliged to pass through a veritable crowd of footmen, who were in the antechamber chatting and laughing, used to meeting there and making long stops.  Nearly all the footmen were those of society, the highest society; they had spent the previous evening together at the English Embassy, and were to be that evening at the Duchess of Gremoille.