“I think even that within the last year her beauty has developed,” says a little gentleman, stirring his coffee.

“De K.’s beauty?  I never could see it.”

“I don’t say that.”

“Excuse me, you did; is it not so, Doctor?”

“Forsooth!”—­“How now!  Come, let us make the distinction.”—­“Ha, ha, ha!” And there is a burst of that hearty laughter which men affect to assist digestion.  The ice is broken, they draw closer to each other and continue in low tones: 

“She has a fine neck! for when she turned just now it looked as if it had been sculptured.”

“Her neck, her neck! but what of her hands, her arms and her shoulders!  Did you see her at Leon’s ball a fortnight ago?  A queen, my dear fellow, a Roman empress.  Neck, shoulders, arms—­”

“And all the rest,” hazards some one, looking down into his cup.  All laugh heartily, and the good De K. comes in with a box of cigars which look exceptional.

“Here you are, my friends,” he says, coughing slightly, “but let me recommend you to smoke carefully.”

I have often dined with my friend De K., and I have always, or almost always, heard a conversation similar to the preceding.  But I must avow that the evening on which I heard the impertinent remark of this gentleman I was particularly shocked; first, because De K. is my friend, and in the second place because I can not endure people who speak of that of which they know nothing.  I make bold to say that I alone in Paris understand this matter to the bottom.  Yes, yes, I alone; and the reason is not far to seek.  Paul and his brother are in England; Ernest is a consul in America; as for Leon, he is at Hycres in his little subprefecture.  You see, therefore, that in truth I am the only one in Paris who can—­

“But hold, Monsieur Z., you must be joking.  Explain yourself; come to the point.  Do you mean to say that Madame de K.—­oh! dear me! but that is most ’inconvenant’!”

Nothing, nothing!  I am foolish.  Let us suppose that I had not spoken, ladies; let us speak of something else.  How could the idea have got into my head of saying anything about “all the rest”?  Let us talk of something else.

It was a real spring morning, the rain fell in torrents and the north wind blew furiously, when the damsel, more dead than alive——­

The fact is, I feel I can not get out of it.  It will be better to tell all.  Only swear to me to be discreet.  On your word of honor?  Well, then, here goes.

I am, I repeat, the only man in Paris who can speak from knowledge of “all the rest” in regard to Madame de K.

Some years ago—­but do not let us anticipate—­I say, some years ago I had an intimate friend at whose house we met many evenings.  In summer the windows were left open, and we used to sit in armchairs and chat of affairs by the light of our cigars.  Now, one evening, when we were talking of fishing—­all these details are still fresh in my memory—­we heard the sound of a powerful harpsichord, and soon followed the harsh notes of a voice more vigorous than harmonious, I must admit.