She dressed herself to perfection, in a style suited to her delicate looks and the sickly whiteness of her face.  Her pallid complexion gave her an expression of refinement, and her black hair in smooth bands enhanced her pallor.  Her brilliant gray eyes looked finer than ever, set in dark rings.  But a terribly distressing incident awaited her.  By a very simple chance, the box given to the journalist, on the first tier, was next to that which Anna Grossetete had taken.  The two intimate friends did not even bow; neither chose to acknowledge the other.  At the end of the first act Lousteau left his seat, abandoning Dinah to the fire of eyes, the glare of opera-glasses; while the Baronne de Fontaine and the Comtesse Marie de Vandenesse, who accompanied her, received some of the most distinguished men of fashion.

Dinah’s solitude was all the more distressing because she had not the art of putting a good face to the matter by examining the company through her opera-glass.  In vain did she try to assume a dignified and thoughtful attitude, and fix her eyes on vacancy; she was overpoweringly conscious of being the object of general attention; she could not disguise her discomfort, and lapsed a little into provincialism, displaying her handkerchief and making involuntary movements of which she had almost cured herself.  At last, between the second and third acts, a man had himself admitted to Dinah’s box!  It was Monsieur de Clagny.

“I am happy to see you, to tell you how much I am pleased by your promotion,” said she.

“Oh!  Madame, for whom should I come to Paris——?”

“What!” said she.  “Have I anything to do with your appointment?”

“Everything,” said he.  “Since you left Sancerre, it had become intolerable to me; I was dying—­”

“Your sincere friendship does me good,” replied she, holding out her hand.  “I am in a position to make much of my true friends; I now know their value.—­I feared I must have lost your esteem, but the proof you have given me by this visit touches me more deeply than your ten years’ attachment.”

“You are an object of curiosity to the whole house,” said the lawyer.  “Oh! my dear, is this a part for you to be playing?  Could you not be happy and yet remain honored?—­I have just heard that you are Monsieur Etienne Lousteau’s mistress, that you live together as man and wife!  —­You have broken for ever with society; even if you should some day marry your lover, the time will come when you will feel the want of the respectability you now despise.  Ought you not to be in a home of your own with your mother, who loves you well enough to protect you with her aegis?—­Appearances at least would be saved.”

“I am in the wrong to have come here,” replied she, “that is all.—­I have bid farewell to all the advantages which the world confers on women who know how to reconcile happiness and the proprieties.  My abnegation is so complete that I only wish I could clear a vast space about me to make a desert of my love, full of God, of him, and of myself.—­We have made too many sacrifices on both sides not to be united—­united by disgrace if you will, but indissolubly one.  I am happy; so happy that I can love freely, my friend, and confide in you more than of old—­for I need a friend.”