The young woman who now entered the presence of Monsieur and Madame Jules had a pair of feet so little covered by her shoes that only a slim black line was visible between the carpet and her white stockings.  This peculiar foot-gear, which Parisian caricaturists have well-rendered, is a special attribute of the grisette of Paris; but she is even more distinctive to the eyes of an observer by the care with which her garments are made to adhere to her form, which they clearly define.  On this occasion she was trigly dressed in a green gown, with a white chemisette, which allowed the beauty of her bust to be seen; her shawl, of Ternaux cashmere, had fallen from her shoulders, and was held by its two corners, which were twisted round her wrists.  She had a delicate face, rosy cheeks, a white skin, sparkling gray eyes, a round, very promising forehead, hair carefully smoothed beneath her little bonnet, and heavy curls upon her neck.

“My name is Ida,” she said, “and if that’s Madame Jules to whom I have the advantage of speaking, I’ve come to tell her all I have in my heart against her.  It is very wrong, when a woman is set up and in her furniture, as you are here, to come and take from a poor girl a man with whom I’m as good as married, morally, and who did talk of making it right by marrying me before the municipality.  There’s plenty of handsome young men in the world—­ain’t there, monsieur?—­to take your fancy, without going after a man of middle age, who makes my happiness.  Yah!  I haven’t got a fine hotel like this, but I’ve got my love, I have.  I hate handsome men and money; I’m all heart, and—­”

Madame Jules turned to her husband.

“You will allow me, monsieur, to hear no more of all this,” she said, retreating to her bedroom.

“If the lady lives with you, I’ve made a mess of it; but I can’t help that,” resumed Ida.  “Why does she come after Monsieur Ferragus every day?”

“You are mistaken, mademoiselle,” said Jules, stupefied; “my wife is incapable—­”

“Ha! so you’re married, you two,” said the grisette showing some surprise.  “Then it’s very wrong, monsieur,—­isn’t it?—­for a woman who has the happiness of being married in legal marriage to have relations with a man like Henri—­”

“Henri! who is Henri?” said Jules, taking Ida by the arm and pulling her into an adjoining room that his wife might hear no more.

“Why, Monsieur Ferragus.”

“But he is dead,” said Jules.

“Nonsense; I went to Franconi’s with him last night, and he brought me home—­as he ought.  Besides, your wife can tell you about him; didn’t she go there this very afternoon at three o’clock?  I know she did, for I waited in the street, and saw her,—­all because that good-natured fellow, Monsieur Justin, whom you know perhaps,—­a little old man with jewelry who wears corsets,—­told me that Madame Jules was my rival.  That name, monsieur, sounds mighty like a feigned one; but if it is yours, excuse me.