At his reception by Madame Lescande and her mother he took heart a little.  They appeared to him what they were, two honest-hearted women, surrounded by luxury and elegance.  The mother—­an ex-beauty—­had been left a widow when very young, and to this time had avoided any stain on her character.  With them, innate delicacy held the place of those solid principles so little tolerated by French society.  Like a few other women of society, Madame had the quality of virtue just as ermine has the quality of whiteness.  Vice was not so repugnant to her as an evil as it was as a blemish.  Her daughter had received from her those instincts of chastity which are oftener than we imagine hidden under the appearance of pride.  But these amiable women had one unfortunate caprice, not uncommon at this day among Parisians of their position.  Although rather clever, they bowed down, with the adoration of bourgeoises, before that aristocracy, more or less pure, that paraded up and down the Champs Elysees, in the theatres, at the race-course, and on the most frequented promenades, its frivolous affairs and rival vanities.

Virtuous themselves, they read with interest the daintiest bits of scandal and the most equivocal adventures that took place among the elite.  It was their happiness and their glory to learn the smallest details of the high life of Paris; to follow its feasts, speak in its slang, copy its toilets, and read its favorite books.  So that if not the rose, they could at least be near the rose and become impregnated with her colors and her perfumes.  Such apparent familiarity heightened them singularly in their own estimation and in that of their associates.

Now, although Camors did not yet occupy that bright spot in the heaven of fashion which was surely to be his one day, still he could here pass for a demigod, and as such inspire Madame Lescande and her mother with a sentiment of most violent curiosity.  His early intimacy with Lescande had always connected a peculiar interest with his name:  and they knew the names of his horses—­most likely knew the names of his mistresses.

So it required all their natural tact to conceal from their guest the flutter of their nerves caused by his sacred presence; but they did succeed, and so well that Camors was slightly piqued.  If not a coxcomb, he was at least young:  he was accustomed to please:  he knew the Princess de Clam-Goritz had lately applied to him her learned definition of an agreeable man—­“He is charming, for one always feels in danger near him!”

Consequently, it seemed a little strange to him that the simple mother of the simple wife of simple Lescande should be able to bear his radiance with such calmness; and this brought him out of his premeditated reserve.

He took the trouble to be irresistible—­not to Madame Lescande, to whom he was studiously respectful—­but to Madame Mursois.  The whole evening he scattered around the mother the social epigrams intended to dazzle the daughter; Lescande meanwhile sitting with his mouth open, delighted with the success of his old schoolfellow.