“I do not wish him to be introduced to me.  He is to be introduced to me.  He is a sculptor.”

He deplored the fact that she needed to see new faces, adding: 

“A sculptor?  They are usually brutal.”

“Oh, but this one does so little sculpture!  But if it annoys you that I should meet him, I will not do so.”

“I should be sorry if society took any part of the time you might give to me.”

“My friend, you can not complain of that.  I did not even go to Madame Meillan’s yesterday.”

“You are right to show yourself there as little as possible.  It is not a house for you.”

He explained.  All the women that went there had had some spicy adventure which was known and talked about.  Besides, Madame Meillan favored intrigue.  He gave examples.  Madame Martin, however, her hands extended on the arms of the chair in charming restfulness, her head inclined, looked at the dying embers in the grate.  Her thoughtful mood had flown.  Nothing of it remained on her face, a little saddened, nor in her languid body, more desirable than ever in the quiescence of her mind.  She kept for a while a profound immobility, which added to her personal attraction the charm of things that art had created.

He asked her of what she was thinking.  Escaping the magic of the blaze in the ashes, she said: 

“We will go to-morrow, if you wish, to far distant places, to the odd districts where the poor people live.  I like the old streets where misery dwells.”

He promised to satisfy her taste, although he let her know that he thought it absurd.  The walks that she led him sometimes bored him, and he thought them dangerous.  People might see them.

“And since we have been successful until now in not causing gossip—­”

She shook her head.

“Do you think that people have not talked about us?  Whether they know or do not know, they talk.  Not everything is known, but everything is said.”

She relapsed into her dream.  He thought her discontented, cross, for some reason which she would not tell.  He bent upon her beautiful, grave eyes which reflected the light of the grate.  But she reassured him.

“I do not know whether any one talks about me.  And what do I care?  Nothing matters.”

He left her.  He was going to dine at the club, where a friend was waiting for him.  She followed him with her eyes, with peaceful sympathy.  Then she began again to read in the ashes.

She saw in them the days of her childhood; the castle wherein she had passed the sweet, sad summers; the dark and humid park; the pond where slept the green water; the marble nymphs under the chestnut-trees, and the bench on which she had wept and desired death.  To-day she still ignored the cause of her youthful despair, when the ardent awakening of her imagination threw her into a troubled maze of desires and of fears.  When she was a child, life frightened her.  And now she knew that life is not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope; that it is a very ordinary thing.  She should have known this.  She thought: