"RenÉe," said Mme. Mauperin one evening to her daughter, "shall we go and see Lord Mansbury's collection of pictures to-morrow? It appears that it is very curious; people say that one of the pictures would fetch four thousand pounds. M. Barousse thought it would interest you, and he has sent me the catalogue and an invitation. Should you like to go?"

"Rather. I should just think I should like to go," replied RenÉe.

The following morning she was very much surprised to see her mother come into the room while she was dressing, busy herself with her toilette, and insist on her putting on her newest hat.

"There are always so many people at these exhibitions," said Mme. Mauperin, arranging the bows on the hat, "and you must be dressed as well as every one else."

Although it was a private exhibition there were crowds of people in the room on the first floor of the Auction Buildings, where Lord Mansbury's collection was on view. The fame of the pictures, and the scandal of such a sale, which it was said had been necessitated by Lord Mansbury's folly in connection with a Palais Royal actress, had attracted all the habituÉs of the HÔtel Drouot; those people whom of late years the fashion for collecting has brought there—all that immense crowd of bric-À-brac buyers, art worshippers, amateurs of repute, and nearly all the idlers of Paris. It had been found necessary to hang the three or four valuable pictures for sale in the hall out of reach of the crowd. In the room one could hear that muffled sound which one always hears at wealthy peoples' sales, the murmur of prices going up, of whims and fancies, of follies which lead on to further follies, of competitions between bankers, and of all kinds of vanities connected with money matters. Bidding, too, could be heard, being quietly carried on among the groups. "The foam was rising," as the dealers say.

When they entered the room, Mme. Mauperin and her daughter saw Barousse, arm-in-arm with a young man of about thirty years of age. The young man had large, soft eyes, which would have been handsome if they had had more expression in them. His figure, which was slightly corpulent, was a little puffy, and this gave him a rather common appearance.

"At last, ladies!" said Barousse, addressing Mme. Mauperin; "allow me to introduce my young friend, M. Lemeunier. He knows the collection thoroughly, and if you want a guide he will take you to the best things. I must ask to be excused, as I want to go and push something in No. 3 room."

M. Lemeunier took Mme. Mauperin and her daughter round the room, stopping at the canvases signed by the most celebrated names. He merely explained the subjects of the pictures, and did not talk art. RenÉe was grateful to him for this from the bottom of her heart, without knowing why. When they had seen everything, Mme. Mauperin thanked M. Lemeunier, and they bowed and parted company.

RenÉe wanted to see one of the side-rooms. The first thing she caught sight of on entering was M. Barousse's back, the back of an amateur in the very height of the excitement of the sale. He was seated on the nearest chair to the auctioneer, next to a picture-dealing woman wearing a cap. He was nudging her, knocking her knee, whispering eagerly his bid, which he imagined he was concealing from the auctioneer and his clerk, from the expert, and from all the room.

"There, come, you have seen enough," said Mme. Mauperin, after a short time. "It's your sister's 'At Home' day, and it is not too late. We have not been once this year to it, and she will be delighted to see us."

RenÉe's sister, Mme. Mauperin's elder daughter, Mme. Davarande, was the type par excellence of a society woman. Society filled her whole life and her brain. As a child she had dreamed of it; from the time she had been confirmed she had longed for it. She had married very young, and had accepted the first "good-looking and suitable" man who had been introduced to her, without any hesitation or trouble and entirely of her own accord. It was not M. Davarande, but a position she had married. Marriage for her meant a carriage and servants in livery, diamonds, invitations, acquaintances, drives in the Bois. She had all that, did very well without children, loved dress, and was happy. To go to three balls in an evening, to leave forty cards before dinner, to run about from one reception to another, and to have her own "At Home" day—she could not conceive of any happiness beyond this. Devoting herself entirely to society, Mme. Davarande borrowed everything from it herself, its ideas, its opinions, its way of giving charity, its stock phrases in affairs of the heart, and its sentiments. She had the same opinions as the women whose hair was dressed by the famous coiffeur, Laure. She thought exactly what it was correct to think, just as she wore exactly what it was correct to wear. Everything, from her very gestures to the furniture in her drawing-room, from the game she played to the alms she gave away, from the newspaper she read to the dish she ordered from her cook, aimed at being in good style—good style being her law and her religion. She followed the fashion of the moment in everything and everywhere, even to the theatre of the Bouffes Parisiens. She had, when driving in the Bois, been told the names of certain women of doubtful reputation, and could point them out to her friends, and that made an effect. She spelt her name with a small "d," an apostrophe, and a capital A, and this converted it into d'Avarande. Mme. Davarande was pious. It seemed to her that God was chic. It would have seemed almost as improper to her to have no parish as to have no gloves. She had adopted one of those churches where grand marriages are celebrated, where people with great names are to be met, where the chairs have armorial bearings, where the beadle glitters with gold lace, where the incense is perfumed with patchouli, and where the porch after high mass on Sundays resembles the corridor of the Opera House when a great artiste has been singing.

She went to hear all the preachers that people were supposed to hear. She confessed her sins, not in the confessional, but in a community. The name and the individuality of the priest played an important part so far as she was concerned in the sacraments of the Church: she would not have felt that she was really married if any one but the AbbÉ Blampoix had officiated at her wedding, and she would not have considered a baptism valid if a ten-pound note had not been sent to the curÉ inside the traditional box of sugar-plums. This woman, whose mind was always fixed on worldly things, even when at church and during the benediction, was naturally, thoroughly, and absolutely virtuous, but her virtue was not the result of any effort, merit, or even consciousness. In the midst of this whirlwind, this artificial air and warm atmosphere, exposed to all the opportunities and temptations of society life, she had neither the heart which a woman must have who is given to dreaming nor enough intelligence to be bored by such an existence. She had neither the curiosity nor the inclination which might have led her astray. Hers was one of those happy, narrow-minded dispositions which have not enough in them to go wrong. She had that unassailable virtue, common to many Parisian women who are not even touched by the temptations which pass over them: she was virtuous just in the same way as marble is cold. Physically, even, as it happens sometimes with lymphatic and delicate natures, the effect of society life on her had been to free her from all other desires by using up her strength, her nervous activity, and the movement of the little blood she had in her body, in the rushing about on visits and shopping, the effort of making herself agreeable, the fatigue of evening parties, resulting in utter weariness at night, and enervation the next day.

There are society women in Paris who, by the amount of vitality and vigour they expend, and by the intense application of their energy and grace, remind one of circus-riders and tight-rope dancers, whose temperament suffers from the fatigue of their exercises.

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Mme. Mauperin and her daughter met Mme. Davarande in her dining-room, accompanying a smooth-faced gentleman with blue spectacles to the door. She was extremely amiable to him, and when she had seen him out she returned to her mother and sister.

"Excuse my leaving you," she said, as she kissed them, "but it was M. Lordonnot, the architect of the Sacred Heart Convent. I cultivate him for the sake of my collections. Thanks to him I had forty-eight pounds you know last time. That's very good: Mme. de Berthival has never reached thirty-two pounds. I'm so glad to see you; it's very nice of you to have come. We'll go into the other room—there's no one here to-day. Mme. de ThÉsigny, Mme. de Champromard, and Mme. de Saint-Sauveur, and then two young men, young de Lorsac—you know him I think, mamma, and his friend de Maisoncelles? Wait a minute," she said to RenÉe, patting her hair down a little, "your hair looks like a little dog's," and then advancing and opening the drawing-room door, she announced her mother and sister.

Every one rose, shook hands, or bowed, and then sat down again and looked at each other. Mme. Davarande's three lady friends were leaning back in their easy chairs in that languid attitude due to cushioned seats. They looked very dainty in their wide skirts, their lovely hats, and gloves about large enough for the hands of a doll. They were dressed perfectly, their gowns had evidently been cut by an artiste, their whole toilette with the hundred little nothings which set it off, their graceful attitudes, their bearing, their gestures, the movement of their bodies, the frou-frou of their silk skirts—everything was there which goes to make the charm of the Parisian woman; and, although they were not beautiful, they had discovered the secret of appearing almost pretty, with just a smile, a glance, certain little details and semblances, flashes of wit, animation, and a smart look generally.

The two friends, Lorsac and Maisoncelles, in the prime of their twenty years, with pink-and-white complexions, brilliant health, beardless faces and curled hair, were delighted at being invited to a young married lady's "At Home" day, and were sitting respectfully on the edge of their chairs. They were young men who had been very well brought up. They had just left a pension kept by an abbÉ who gave little parties every evening, at which his sister presided, and which finished up with tea handed round in the billiard-room.

"Henriette," said Mme. de ThÉsigny to Mme. Davarande, when the conversation had commenced again, "are we going to see Mlle. de Bussan's wedding to-morrow? I hear that every one will be there. It's made such a stir, this marriage."

"Will you call for me, then? What's the bride-groom like—does any one know? Do you know him, Mme. de Saint-Sauveur?"

"No, not at all."

"Is she making a good match?"

"An awful match!" put in Mme. de Champromard, "he hasn't anything—six hundred pounds a year all told."

"But," said Mme. Mauperin, "it seems to me, madame, that six hundred——"

"Oh, madame," continued Mme. de Champromard, "why, nowadays, that isn't enough to pay for having one's jewellery reset."

"M. de Lorsac, are you coming to this wedding?" asked Mme. Davarande.

"I will come if you wish it."

"Well then, I do wish it. Will you keep two chairs for us? One spoils one's dress quite enough without that. I can wear pearl grey, can't I?"

"Oh, certainly," answered Mme. de ThÉsigny, "it's a moirÉ antique wedding. M. de Maisoncelles, will you keep two chairs for me? Don't forget."

De Maisoncelles bowed.

"And if you are very good you shall be my cotillon partner on Wednesday."

De Lorsac blushed for de Maisoncelles.

"You don't go out much, do you, mademoiselle?" said Mme. de Sauveur to RenÉe, who was seated next her.

"No, madame, I don't care about going out," answered Mlle. Mauperin rather curtly.

"Julia," said Mme. de ThÉsigny to Mme. de Champromard, "tell us again about your famous bride's bed-room—Mme. Davarande wasn't there. Just listen, my dear."

"Oh, it was my sewing-woman who told me. Only fancy, the walls are draped with white satin, finished with applications of lace, and ruches of satin to outline the panels. The sheets—I've seen the pattern—they are of cambric—spider-web. The mattresses are of white satin, caught down with knots of pale blue silk that show through the sheet. And you will be surprised to hear that all that is for a woman who is quite comme il faut."

"Oh, yes," said Mme. de Saint-Sauveur, "that is most astonishing, for everything, nowadays, is for the other kind of women. What do you think happened to me in the country—a most disagreeable affair! There is a woman, who is not all she ought to be, living near us. We came across her at church, for she has sittings there—just fancy! Well, ever since she has arrived in our part of the world, everything has gone up in price. We positively cannot get a sewing-girl now in the house for less than seven-pence halfpenny an hour. Money is nothing to creatures of that kind, of course. And then every one adores her—she is such a schemer. She goes to see the peasants when they are ill, she finds situations for their children, and she gives them money—a sovereign at a time. Before she came we used to be able to do things for the poor without much expense, but that isn't possible now. It's outrageous! I told the curÉ so—it really is quite scandalous! And we owe all this to one of your relatives, M. de Lorsac, to your cousin, M. d'Orambeau. My compliments to him when you see him."

The two young men threw themselves back on their chairs and laughed heartily, and then both of them instinctively bit their canes with delight.

"Where have you just come from?" Mme. Davarande asked her mother and sister.

"From the auction-room," answered Mme. Mauperin. "M. Barousse persuaded us to go to an exhibition of pictures."

"Lord Mansbury's collection," put in RenÉe.

"Ah, we must go to those auction-rooms, Henriette," said Mme. de ThÉsigny; "we'll go and rococoter—it's great fun."

"Have you seen Petrucci's pictures, my dear?" asked Mme. de Saint-Sauveur.

"Is she selling them?" asked Mme. de ThÉsigny.

"I did so want to go," said Mme. Davarande. "If I had only known that you were going——"

"We were all there," interrupted Mme. de Saint-Sauveur. "It was so curious. There was a glass-case of jewellery, a necklace of black pearls among other things—if only you had seen it—three rows. There isn't a husband in the world who could give you a thing like that; it would take a national subscription."

"Shall we not see your husband?" asked Mme. Mauperin, turning to Mme. Davarande.

"Oh, he's never here on my day—my husband—thank goodness!" Mme. Davarande looked round as she heard some one coming in by the door behind her chair. It was M. Barousse, followed by the young man who had been with him at the auction-room.

"Ah, we meet again," he said to Mme. Mauperin, as he put down on a chair the little portfolio which never left him.

RenÉe smiled and the chattering began again.

"Have you read that novel—that novel?"

"The one in the Constitutional?"

"No."

"By—I can't think of the name. It's called—wait a minute."

"Every one's talking about it."

"Do read it."

"My husband will get it me from his club."

"Is that play amusing?"

"I only like dramas."

"Shall we go?"

"Let's take a box."

"Friday?"

"No, Saturday."

"Shall we go to supper after?"

"Yes—agreed."

"It's at the ProvenÇaux."

"Will your husband come?"

"Oh, he does what I want him to do, always."

They were all talking and answering each other's questions without really listening to anything, as every one was chattering at the same time. Words, questions, and voices were all mingled together in the Babel: it was like the chirping of so many birds in a cage. The door opened, and a tall, thin woman dressed in black, entered.

"Don't disturb yourselves, any of you; I have only just come in as I am passing. I have only one minute."

She bowed to the ladies and took up her position in front of the chimney-piece, with her elbow on the marble and her hands in her muff. She glanced at herself in the glass, and then, lifting her dress skirt, held out the thin sole of her dainty little boot to the fire.

"Henriette," she began, "I have come to ask you a favour—a great favour. You absolutely must undertake the invitations for the ball that the Brodmers are giving—you know, those Americans, who have just come; they have a flat in the Rue de la Paix, and the rent is sixteen hundred a year."

"Oh, the Brodmers—yes," put in Mme. de ThÉsigny.

"But, my dear," said Mme. Davarande, "it's a very delicate matter—I don't know them. Have you any idea what these people are?"

"Why, they are Americans. They've made their fortune out of cotton, candles, indigo, or negroes—or—I don't know what; but what in the world does that matter to us? Americans, you know, are accepted nowadays. As far as I am concerned—with people who give balls, there's only one thing I care about, and that is that they shouldn't belong to the police and should give good suppers. It's all superb at their house, it seems. The wife is astonishing. She talks the French of the backwoods; and people say she was tattooed when she was a child. That's why she can't wear low dresses. It's most amusing, and she is so entertaining. They want to get plenty of people, you see. You will do it for me, won't you? I can assure you that if I were not in mourning I should have had great pleasure in putting on the invitation cards, 'With the Baronne de Lermont's compliments.' And then, too, they are people who will do things properly. Oh, as to that I'm convinced of it. They are sure to make you a present——"

"Oh no, if I undertake the invitations I don't want a present for it."

"How queer you are! Why, that sort of thing's done every day—it's the custom. It would be like refusing a box of sweets from these gentlemen here on New Year's day. And now I must go. I shall bring them to see you to-morrow—my savages. Good-bye! Oh dear, I'm nearly dead!" and with these words she disappeared.

"Is it really true?" RenÉe asked her sister.

"What?"

"That guests are supplied for balls in this way?"

"Well, didn't you know that?"

"I was in the same state of ignorance," said the young man M. Barousse had brought.

"It's very convenient for foreigners," remarked Mme. Davarande.

"Yes, but it seems to me that it's rather humiliating for Parisians. Don't you think so, mademoiselle?" said the young man, turning to Mlle. Mauperin.

"Oh, it's an accepted thing, anyhow," said Mme. Davarande.

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