“Will monsieur,” said Coffinet to la Peyrade, “receive two ladies?  They are very well-dressed, and the young one ain’t to be despised.”

“Shall I let them in?” said la Peyrade to Thuillier.

“Yes, since they are here,” growled Thuillier; “but get rid of them as soon as possible.”

Coffinet’s judgment on the toilet of the two visitors needs revision.  A woman is well-dressed, not when she wears rich clothes, but when her clothes present a certain harmony of shapes and colors which form an appropriate and graceful envelope to her person.  Now a bonnet with a flaring brim, surmounted by nodding plumes, an immense French cashmere shawl, worn with the awkward inexperience of a young bride, a plaid silk gown with enormous checks and a triple tier of flounces with far too many chains and trinkets (though to be just, the boots and gloves were irreproachable), constituted the apparel of the younger of these ladies.  As for the other, who seemed to be in the tow of her dressy companion, she was short, squat, and high-colored, and wore a bonnet, shawl, and gown which a practised eye would at once have recognized as second hand.  Mothers of actresses are always clothed by this very economical process.  Their garments, condemned to the service of two generations, reverse the order of things, and go from descendants to ancestors.

Advancing two chairs, la Peyrade inquired, “To whom have I the honor of speaking?”

“Monsieur,” said the younger visitor, “I am a dramatic artist, and as I am about to make my first appearance in this quarter, I allow myself to hope that a journal of this locality will favor me.”

“At what theatre?” asked la Peyrade.

“The Folies, where I am engaged for the Dejazets.”

“The Folies?” echoed la Peyrade, in a tone that demanded an explanation.

“Folies-Dramatiques,” interposed the agreeable Madame Cardinal, whom the reader has doubtless recognized.

“When do you appear?” asked la Peyrade.

“Next week, monsieur,—­a fairy piece in which I play five parts.”

“You’ll encourage her, monsieur, won’t you?” said Madame Cardinal, in a coaxing voice; “she’s so young, and I can certify she works day and night.”

“Mother!” said Olympe, with authority, “the public will judge me; all I want is that monsieur will kindly promise to notice my debut.”

“Very good, mademoiselle,” said la Peyrade in a tone of dismissal, beginning to edge the pair to the door.

Olympe Cardinal went first, leaving her mother to hurry after her as best she could.

“At home to no one!” cried Thuillier to the office-boy as he closed the door and slipped the bolt.  “Now,” he said, addressing la Peyrade, “we will talk.  My dear fellow,” he went on, starting with irony, for he remembered to have heard that nothing was more confusing to an adversary, “I have heard something that will give you pleasure.  I know now why MY pamphlet was seized.”