The Countess listened with curious gaze, her idle hands holding the interrupted needle-work on her knee.

Bertin, who was still more exasperated by Musadieu’s presence since Annette had gone, was incensed at this recital, and declared, with the indignation of one who had known of the scandal but did not wish to speak of it to anyone, that the story was an odious falsehood, one of those shameful lies which people of their world ought neither to listen to nor repeat.  He appeared greatly wrought up over the matter, as he stood leaning against the mantelpiece and speaking with the excited manner of a man disposed to make a personal question of the subject under discussion.

Rocdiane was his friend, he said; and, though he might be criticised for frivolity in certain respects, no one could justly accuse him or even suspect him of any really unworthy action.  Musadieu, surprised and embarrassed, defended himself, tried to explain and to excuse himself.

“Allow me to say,” he remarked at last, “that I heard this story just before I came here, in the drawing-room of the Duchesse de Mortemain.”

“Who told it to you?  A woman, no doubt,” said Bertin.

“No, not at all; it was the Marquis de Farandal.”

The painter, irritated still further, retorted:  “That does not astonish me—­from him!”

There was a brief silence.  The Countess took up her work again.  Presently Olivier said in a calmer voice:  “I know for a fact that that story is false.”

In reality, he knew nothing whatever about it, having heard it mentioned then for the first time.

Musadieu thought it wise to prepare the way for his retreat, feeling the situation rather dangerous; and he was just beginning to say that he must pay a visit at the Corbelles’ that evening when the Comte de Guilleroy appeared, returning from dining in the city.

Bertin sat down again, overcome, and despairing now of getting rid of the husband.

“You haven’t heard, have you, of the great scandal that is running all over town this evening?” inquired the Count pleasantly.

As no one answered, he continued:  “It seems that Rocdiane surprised his wife in a criminal situation, and has made her pay dearly for her indiscretion.”

Then Bertin, with his melancholy air, with grief in voice and gesture, placing one hand on Guilleroy’s shoulder, repeated in a gentle and amicable manner all that he had just said so roughly to Musadieu.

The Count, half convinced, annoyed to have allowed himself to repeat so lightly a doubtful and possibly compromising thing, pleaded his ignorance and his innocence.  The gossips said so many false and wicked things!

Suddenly, all agreed upon this statement:  the world certainly accused, suspected, and calumniated with deplorable facility!  All four appeared to be convinced, during the next five minutes, that all the whispered scandals were lies; that the women did not have the lovers ascribed to them; that the men never committed the sins they were accused of; and, in short, that the outward appearance of things was usually much worse than the real situation.