“He reproached his young colleague—­Marmet was not fifty years old—­with reading Etruscan too well and Latin not well enough.  From that time Marmet had no rest.  At every meeting he was mocked unmercifully; and, finally, in spite of his softness, he got angry.  Schmoll is without rancor.  It is a virtue of his race.  He does not bear ill-will to those whom he persecutes.  One day, as he went up the stairway of the Institute with Renan and Oppert, he met Marmet, and extended his hand to him.  Marmet refused to take it, and said ’I do not know you.’—­’Do you take me for a Latin inscription?’ Schmoll replied.  Marmet died and was buried because of that satire.  Now you know the reason why his widow sees his enemy with horror.”

“And I have made them dine together, side by side.”

“Madame, it was not immoral, but it was cruel.”

“My dear sir, I shall shock you, perhaps; but if I had to choose, I should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one.”

A young man, tall, thin, dark, with a long moustache, entered, and bowed with brusque suppleness.

“Monsieur Vence, I think that you know Monsieur Le Menil.”

They had met before at Madame Martin’s, and saw each other often at the Fencing Club.  The day before they had met at Madame Meillan’s.

“Madame Meillan’s—­there’s a house where one is bored,” said Paul Vence.

“Yet Academicians go there,” said M. Robert Le Menil.  “I do not exaggerate their value, but they are the elite.”

Madame Martin smiled.

“We know, Monsieur Le Menil, that at Madame Meillan’s you are preoccupied by the women more than by the Academicians.  You escorted Princess Seniavine to the buffet and talked to her about wolves.”

“What wolves?”

“Wolves, and forests blackened by winter.  We thought that with so pretty a woman your conversation was rather savage!”

Paul Vence rose.

“So you permit, Madame, that I should bring my friend Dechartre?  He has a great desire to know you, and I hope he will not displease you.  There is life in his mind.  He is full of ideas.”

“Oh, I do not ask for so much,” Madame Martin said.  “People that are natural and show themselves as they are rarely bore me, and sometimes they amuse me.”

When Paul Vence had gone, Le Menil listened until the noise of footsteps had vanished; then, coming nearer: 

“To-morrow, at three o’clock?  Do you still love me?”

He asked her to reply while they were alone.  She answered that it was late, that she expected no more visitors, and that no one except her husband would come.

He entreated.  Then she said: 

“I shall be free to-morrow all day.  Wait for me at three o’clock.”

He thanked her with a look.  Then, placing himself on at the other side of the chimney, he asked who was that Dechartre whom she wished introduced to her.