It was a lady—­a school-friend of Lady A——­, whose name is Madame Durmaitre.  She is a widow, and extremely handsome; she is noted for a lesser degree of folly amid the wild and worldly ladies of the chateau.  For this reason, and somewhat also on account of her superior charms, she has long since conquered the ill-will of Madame de Palme, who, in allusion to her rival’s somber style of dress, to the languid character of her beauty, and to the somewhat elegiac turn of her conversation, is pleased to designate her, among the young people, as the Malabar Widow.  Madame Durmaitre is positively lacking in wit; but she is intelligent, tolerably well read, and much inclined to reverie.  She prides herself upon a certain talent for conversation.  Seeing that I am myself destitute of any other social accomplishment, she has got it into her head that I must possess that particular one, and she has undertaken to make sure of it.  The result has been, between us, a rather assiduous and almost cordial intercourse; for, if I have been unable to fully respond to all her hopes, I listen, at least with religious attention, to the little melancholy pathos which is habitual with her.  I appear to understand her, and she seems grateful for it.  The truth is that I never tire hearing her voice, which is musical, gazing at her features, which are exquisitely regular, and admiring her large black eyes, over which a fringe of heavy eyelashes casts a mystic shadow.  However, do not feel uneasy; I have decided that the time for being loved, and consequently for loving, is over for me; now, love is a malady which no one need fear, if he sincerely strive to repress its first symptoms.

Madame de Palme had turned around at the sound of the opening door; when she recognized Madame Durmaitre, a fierce light gleamed in her blue eyes; chance had sent her a victim.  She allowed the beautiful widow to advance a few paces toward us, with the slow and mournful step which is characteristic of her manner, and bursting out laughing: 

“Bravo!” she exclaimed, with emphasis, “the march to the scaffold! the victim dragged to the altar!  Iphigenia; or, rather, Hermione: 

“‘Pleurante apres son char vous voulez qu’on me voie!’

“Who is it that has written this verse?  I am so ignorant!  Ah! it’s your friend, M. de Lamartine, I believe.  He was thinking of you, my dear!”

“Ah! you quote poetry now, dear madam,” said Madame Durmaitre, who is not very skilled at retort.

“Why not, dear madam?  Have you a monopoly of it?—­’Pleurante apres son char?’ I have heard Rachel say that.  By the way, it is not by Lamartine, it’s by Boileau.  I must tell you, dear Nathalie, that I intend to ask you to give me lessons in serious and virtuous conversation.  It’s so amusing!  And to begin at once, come! tell me whom you prefer, Lamartine or Boileau?”

“But, Bathilde, there is no connection,” replied Madame Durmaitre, rather sensibly and much too candidly.