from Sancerre had taken their leave one by one—­for they had an hour’s drive before them—­when no one remained in the drawing-room but Monsieur de Clagny, Monsieur Lebas, Gatien, and Monsieur Gravier, who were all to sleep at Anzy—­the journalist had already changed his mind about Dinah.  His opinion had gone through the evolution that Madame de la Baudraye had so audaciously prophesied at their first meeting.

“Ah, what things they will say about us on the drive home!” cried the mistress of the house, as she returned to the drawing-room after seeing the President and the Presidente to their carriage with Madame and Mademoiselle Popinot-Chandier.

The rest of the evening had its pleasant side.  In the intimacy of a small party each one brought to the conversation his contribution of epigrams on the figure the visitors from Sancerre had cut during Lousteau’s comments on the paper wrapped round the proofs.

“My dear fellow,” said Bianchon to Lousteau as they went to bed—­they had an enormous room with two beds in it—­“you will be the happy man of this woman’s choice—­nee Piedefer!”

“Do you think so?”

“It is quite natural.  You are supposed here to have had many mistresses in Paris; and to a woman there is something indescribably inviting in a man whom other women favor—­something attractive and fascinating; is it that she prides herself on being longer remembered than all the rest? that she appeals to his experience, as a sick man will pay more to a famous physician? or that she is flattered by the revival of a world-worn heart?”

“Vanity and the senses count for so much in love affairs,” said Lousteau, “that there may be some truth in all those hypotheses.  However, if I remain, it will be in consequence of the certificate of innocence, without ignorance, that you have given Dinah.  She is handsome, is she not?”

“Love will make her beautiful,” said the doctor.  “And, after all, she will be a rich widow some day or other!  And a child would secure her the life-interest in the Master of La Baudraye’s fortune—­”

“Why, it is quite an act of virtue to make love to her,” said Lousteau, rolling himself up in the bed-clothes, “and to-morrow, with your help—­yes, to-morrow, I—­well, good-night.”

On the following day, Madame de la Baudraye, to whom her husband had six months since given a pair of horses, which he also used in the fields, and an old carriage that rattled on the road, decided that she would take Bianchon so far on his way as Cosne, where he would get into the Lyons diligence as it passed through.  She also took her mother and Lousteau, but she intended to drop her mother at La Baudraye, to go on to Cosne with the two Parisians, and return alone with Etienne.  She was elegantly dressed, as the journalist at once perceived—­bronze kid boots, gray silk stockings, a muslin dress, a green silk scarf with shaded fringe at the ends, and a pretty black lace bonnet with flowers in it.  As to Lousteau, the wretch had assumed his war-paint—­patent leather boots, trousers of English kerseymere with pleats in front, a very open waistcoat showing a particularly fine shirt and the black brocade waterfall of his handsome cravat, and a very thin, very short black riding-coat.