“Himself.  I was excessively agreeable to him.  He talked to me of the yearnings of his heart and he looked at me with alarming tenderness.  And from time to time he gazed, with sighs, at the portrait of the Duc d’Orleans.  I said to him:  ’Monsieur Garain, you are making a mistake.  It is my sister-in-law who is an Orleanist.  I am not.’  At this moment Monsieur Le Menil came to escort me to the buffet.  He paid great compliments—­to my horses!  He said, also, there was nothing so beautiful as the forest in winter.  He talked about wolves.  That refreshed me.”

The General, who did not like young men, said he had met Le Menil the day before in the forest, galloping, with vast space between himself and his saddle.

He declared that old cavaliers alone retained the traditions of good horsemanship; that people in society now rode like jockeys.

“It is the same with fencing,” he added.  “Formerly—­”

Princess Seniavine interrupted him: 

“General, look and see how charming Madame Martin is.  She is always charming, but at this moment she is prettier than ever.  It is because she is bored.  Nothing becomes her better than to be bored.  Since we have been here, we have bored her terribly.  Look at her:  her forehead clouded, her glance vague, her mouth dolorous.  Behold a victim!”

She arose, kissed Therese tumultuously, and fled, leaving the General astonished.

Madame Martin-Belleme prayed him not to listen to what the Princess had said.

He collected himself and asked: 

“And how are your poets, Madame?”

It was difficult for him to forgive Madame Martin her preference for people who lived by writing and were not of his circle.

“Yes, your poets.  What has become of that Monsieur Choulette, who visits you wrapped in a red muffler?”

“My poets?  They forget me, they abandon me.  One should not rely on anybody.  Men and women—­nothing is sure.  Life is a continual betrayal.  Only that poor Miss Bell does not forget me.  She has written to me from Florence and sent her book.”

“Miss Bell?  Isn’t she that young person who looks, with her yellow waving hair, like a little lapdog?”

He reflected, and expressed the opinion that she must be at least thirty.

An old lady, wearing with modest dignity her crown of white hair, and a little vivacious man with shrewd eyes, came in suddenly—­Madame Marmet and M. Paul Vence.  Then, carrying himself very stiffly, with a square monocle in his eye, appeared M. Daniel Salomon, the arbiter of elegance.  The General hurried out.

They talked of the novel of the week.  Madame Marmet had dined often with the author, a young and very amiable man.  Paul Vence thought the book tiresome.

“Oh,” sighed Madame Martin, “all books are tiresome.  But men are more tiresome than books, and they are more exacting.”

Madame Marmet said that her husband, who had much literary taste, had retained, until the end of his days, a horror of naturalism.  She was the widow of a member of the ‘Academie des Inscriptions’, and plumed herself upon her illustrious widowhood.  She was sweet and modest in her black gown and her beautiful white hair.