“All silk, my dear, at thirty francs the yard.  Ha, ’tis wonderfully cheap, the best—­”

“Eh!  What care I for your ‘chance?’ Velvet in July—­are you making fun of me?”

“Let me show it to you, now.”

“Never!  I am expected to dinner at Asnieres, and so—­”

She was about to go away despite Mme. Charman’s attempts to detain her, when M. Lecoq thought it was time to interfere.

“Why, am I mistaken?” cried he, as if amazed; “is it really Miss Jenny whom I have the honor of seeing?”

She scanned him with a half-angry, half-surprised air, and said: 

“Yes, it is I; what of it?”

“What!  Are you so forgetful?  Don’t you recognize me?”

“No, not at all.”

“Yet I was one of your admirers once, my dear, and used to breakfast with you when you lived near the Madeleine; in the count’s time, you know.”

He took off his spectacles as if to wipe them, but really to launch a furious look at Mme. Charman, who, not daring to resist, beat a hasty retreat.

“I knew Tremorel well in other days,” resumed the detective.  “And—­ by the bye, have you heard any news of him lately?”

“I saw him about a week ago.”

“Stop, though—­haven’t you heard of that horrible affair?”

“No.  What was it?”

“Really, now, haven’t you heard?  Don’t you read the papers?  It was a dreadful thing, and has been the talk of all Paris for the past forty-eight hours.”

“Tell me about it, quick!”

“You know that he married the widow of one of his friends.  He was thought to be very happy at home; not at all; he has murdered his wife with a knife.”

Jenny grew pale under her paint.

“Is it possible?” stammered she.  She seemed much affected, but not very greatly surprised, which M. Lecoq did not fail to remark.

“It is so possible,” he resumed, “that he is at this moment in prison, will soon be tried, and without a doubt will be convicted.”

M. Plantat narrowly observed Jenny; he looked for an explosion of despair, screams, tears, at least a light nervous attack; he was mistaken.

Jenny now detested Tremorel.  Sometimes she felt the weight of her degradation, and she accused Hector of her present ignominy.  She heartily hated him, though she smiled when she saw him, got as much money out of him as she could, and cursed him behind his back.  Instead of bursting into tears, she therefore laughed aloud.

“Well done for Tremorel,” said she.  “Why did he leave me?  Good for her too.”

“Why so?”

“What did she deceive her husband for?  It was she who took Hector from me—­she, a rich, married woman!  But I’ve always said Hector was a poor wretch.”

“Frankly, that’s my notion too.  When a man acts as Tremorel has toward you, he’s a villain.”

“It’s so, isn’t it?”