Now that she had left, he opened his window quickly.  It seemed to him that a little blue smoke escaped from the room, the cloud emitted by Marianne’s cigarette.  And with this bluish vapor also disappeared the odor of new-mown hay, bearing with it the passing intoxication that for a moment threatened to ensnare this disabused man.

The cold outside air, the bright sunshine, entered in quivering rays.  Without, the snow-covered roofs stood out clearly against a soft blue sky, limpid and springlike.  Light wreaths of smoke floated upward in the bracing atmosphere.

Guy freely inhaled this buoyant atmosphere that chased away the blended odor of tobacco and that exhaled from the woman.  It seemed to him that a sort of band had been torn from his brow which, but a moment ago, felt compressed.  The fresh breeze bore away all trace of Marianne’s kisses.

“Must I always be a child?” he thought.  “It is not on my account that she came here, but on Rosas’s.  Our friends’ friends are our lovers.  Egad! on my word, I was almost taken in again, nevertheless!  Compelled, in order to cut adrift again, to make another journey to Italy,—­at my age.”

Then, feeling chilly, he closed the window, laughing as he did so.

V

On the pavement of the Boulevard Malesherbes, two policemen, wrapped in their hooded coats, restrained the crowd that gathered in front of the huge double-door of the house occupied by Madame Marsy.  A double row of curious idlers stood motionless, braving benumbed fingers while watching the carriages that rolled under the archway, which, after quickly depositing at the foot of the brilliantly lighted perron women enveloped in burnooses and men in white gloves, their faces half-hidden by fur collars, turned and crossed the row of approaching coupes.

For an hour past there had been a double file of carriages, and a continuous stream of guests arriving on foot, who threw their cigars at the foot of the perron, chatting as they ascended the steps, which were protected by a covering of glass.  The curious pointed out the faces of well-known persons.  It was said in the neighborhood that the greater part of the ministers had accepted invitations.

Madame Marsy’s salons were brilliant under the blazing lights.  Guests jostled each other in the lobbies.  Overcoats and mantles were thrown in heaps or strung up in haste, the gloved hands reaching out as in the lobby of a theatre to receive the piece of numbered pasteboard.

“You have No. 113,” said Monsieur de Lissac to Marianne, who had just entered, wearing a pale blue cloak, and leaning on his arm.

She smiled as she slipped the tiny card into her pocket.

“Oh!  I am not superstitious!”

She beamed with satisfaction.

People in the hall stood aside in order to allow this pretty creature to pass by; her fair hair fell over her plump, though slender, white shoulders, and the folds of her satin skirt, falling over her magnificent hips, rustled as she walked.