Monsieur—­Come, calm yourself, I will go into the drawing-room; is there a fire there?

Madame—­(inattentively)—­But, my dear, how can you expect a fire to be in the drawing-room?

Monsieur—­I will go to my study, then.

Madame—­There is none there, either.  What do you want a fire in your study for?  What a singular idea!  High up, you know, Silvani, and a dash of disorder, it is all the rage.

Silvani—­Would you allow a touch of brown under the eyes?  That would enable me to idealize the coiffure.

Monsieur—­(impatiently)—­Marie, give me my top-coat and my cap.  I will walk up and down in the anteroom. (Aside.) Madame de Lyr shall pay for this.

Silvani—­(crimping)—­I leave your ear uncovered, Madame; it would be a sin to veil it.  It is like that of the Princesse de K., whose hair I dressed yesterday.  Lisette, get the powder ready.  Ears like yours, Madame, are not numerous.

Madame—­You were saying—­

Silvani—­Would your ear, Madame, be so modest as not to listen?

Madame’s hair is at length dressed.  Silvani sheds a light cloud of scented powder over his work, on which he casts a lingering look of satisfaction, then bows and retires.

In passing through the anteroom, he runs against Monsieur, who is walking up and down.

Silvani—­A thousand pardons, I have the honor to wish you good night.

Monsieur—­(from the depths of his turned-up collar) Good-night.

A quarter of an hour later the sound of a carriage is heard.  Madame is ready, her coiffure suits her, she smiles at herself in the glass as she slips the glove-stretchers into the twelve-button gloves.

Monsieur has made a failure of his necktie and broken off three buttons.  Traces of decided ill-humor are stamped on his features.

Monsieur—­Come, let us go down, the carriage is waiting; it is a quarter past eleven. (Aside.) Another sleepless night.  Sharp, coachman; Rue de la Pepiniere, number 224.

They reach the street in question.  The Rue de la Pepiniere is in a tumult.  Policemen are hurriedly making way through the crowd.  In the distance, confused cries and a rapidly approaching, rumbling sound are heard.  Monsieur thrusts his head out of the window.

Monsieur—­What is it, Jean?

Coachman—­A fire, Monsieur; here come the firemen.

Monsieur—­Go on all the same to number 224.

Coachman—­We are there, Monsieur; the fire is at number 224.

Doorkeeper of the House—­(quitting a group of people and approaching the carriage)—­You are, I presume, Monsieur, one of the guests of Madame de Lyr?  She is terror-stricken; the fire is in her rooms.  She can not receive any one.

Madame—­(excitedly)—­It is scandalous.

Monsieur—­(humming)—­Heart-breaking, heartbreaking! (To the coachman.) Home again, quickly; I am all but asleep. (He stretches himself out and turns up his collar.) ( Aside.) After all, I am the better for a well-cooked partridge.