FrÉdÉrique led us through a narrow hall, at the end of which we entered a small room, well carpeted and deliciously warm; in each corner, and between the windows, were boxes of growing flowers. The apartment was too elegant for a dining-room, and not enough so for a boudoir. A table was laid there, with all the luxurious appointments that add so much to the charm of a repast.

"This, messieurs, is what I call my Petit Trianon, or my petits appartements—that is to say, it is the room where I receive my friends. I need not tell you that my husband is never admitted here. I believe that you did not come here to see him. We are like the sun and the moon: we are never seen together unless there is some serious disturbance in the solar system. As we have agreed that each of us shall enjoy absolute liberty, we live up to our agreement."

"Ten id is apsoludely as if you haf no husbant, hein? Ha! ha!"

"Oh! it isn't the same thing, by any means.—To table, messieurs!"

We took our places, FrÉdÉrique between us, of course. Her affable, unconventional manner instantly put her guests at their ease. The baron was radiant; he rolled his eyes about, and kept repeating:

"Ich loafe sehr viel your betit Trille-anon."

"Flowers everywhere!" I said, glancing at those on the table, and at the boxes that surrounded us.

"Yes, I adore them; I must always have some about me."

"Birds of a feather flock together."

"Oh! my dear Rochebrune, pray don't put me on a diet of insipid compliments! I detest them. I prefer the volnay. Come, messieurs, drink! Do you prefer chambertin—or pomard? You have only to speak."

"I should mit bleazure trink all te drei."

"And you are quite right. Vive variety! It is charming, isn't it, messieurs?"

"It's very nice, in the matter of wine."

"And in everything else! own up to it, hypocrite!"

"I am too honest to contradict you."

"That's right! Why, see my flowers—how lovely they are! these roses and camellias and hyacinths and cactuses! Would the bouquet be so pretty, if I had nothing but roses?"

"Evidently, flowers are your passion."

"Faith! yes; and I believe the only one I have ever had thus far. Perhaps that is the reason I have been so frivolous, so fickle."

"I vould like to pe a tulib," murmured the baron.

"You choose ill, baron; the tulip has very little charm for me; I care little for odorless flowers."

"In tat case, I vould like to pe—a beony."

"Ha! ha! ha! you are not happy in your choice of flowers. Well, messieurs, what did you think of Monsieur Sordeville's reception? Was the concert good? I arrived very late."

"Faith! that was lucky for your ears; for there were a lady and a gentleman who put us to a severe test. By the way, a young man, with a very light complexion, sang some ballads tolerably well. Who was he, I wonder? He talked a good deal with Madame Sordeville."

"Oh! I know: it was Mondival. He's very good-looking, but a fool; he's conceited, and I hate conceited men. I prefer them ugly—and clever. I don't mean that for you, messieurs."

And the fair FrÉdÉrique laughed aloud. The baron felt called upon to follow suit. I said nothing, for I was thinking of Armantine. My neighbor, noticing my serious face, nudged me with her knee.

"Well! he has nothing to say!" she exclaimed. "Have I offended you? But, no—I said nothing that was meant for you."

"Offended me? How, pray?"

"He doesn't even know what I said! He's thinking of his Armantine; I was sure of it! Do you love her so much, then—with all your heart, as they say?"

"Yes—that is to say, I did love her."

"And it's over already, because she played the coquette?"

"She paid no more attention to me than if I had been a perfect stranger."

"But she hasn't known you so very long! And then, I warn you that she is extremely capricious."

"Oh! I have noticed that; it's a wretched fault."

"It's common enough among petites-maÎtresses. I am not capricious, myself; to be sure, I am not a petite-maÎtresse! Pray drink, messieurs; you lag behind. You're not lusty suppers! Look at me: I'll set you an example."

FrÉdÉrique emptied her glass at one swallow. The baron tried to do the same, but swallowed it the wrong way; he left the table, to cough and stamp on the floor. The servant brought champagne and malvoisie; the supper was delicious. I began to feel less melancholy; Madame Dauberny's example led me on, and I did honor to the good cheer.

The baron, having ceased to cough, resumed his seat; his cheeks were beginning to turn purple.

"In a moment," said FrÉdÉrique, "I will dismiss the servant; then we will put our elbows on the table and talk nonsense."

"Ja! ja! nonzenz, I like to talk nonzenz; und mit unser foot on te table; tat vill be sehr amusing."

"Not the feet; that would be uncomfortable. I said elbows."

"Ja! te knees."

"Impromptu parties forever! they are the only merry ones. Certainly I had no idea this morning that I should have you gentlemen to supper this evening, or rather to-night; and you didn't expect to come here."

"We did not foresee our good fortune."

"Oh! you are stupefying with your compliments, Rochebrune! I like to believe that you talk differently to the women you love. However, there are women who like that sort of talk; Armantine doesn't detest compliments."

"I assure you, madame, that I had no intention of paying you one. But one can no longer say what one thinks. This supper is a genuine piece of good fortune, so far as I am concerned: I was depressed, you have restored my good spirits; I had abandoned all hope, you have renewed it; in truth, I can't tell you why I feel so happy now! You are willing that we should say just what we think, are you not?"

"Oh, yes! for I do, myself."

"Well, you have a headdress that does my heart good! If you knew how becoming it is to you!—Isn't it true, baron, that madame's headdress is fascinating?"

The baron began by offering me his hand; I had no choice but to take it; and he began to shake mine, crying:

"You not pe in loafe mit her, nicht wahr? you haf id to me pevore supper bromised."

I could not help laughing at the baron's anxiety concerning the state of my heart.

The seductive FrÉdÉrique shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said with some show of impatience:

"Why, no, a thousand times no! he doesn't give me a thought! Can't a man tell a lady that her headdress becomes her, that he likes that style of headdress, without being in love with her? If you return to that subject, Monsieur le Prussien, I'll put an end to the session."

"I am dumb."

"Oh! talk, but talk about something else.—Vivat! we are free at last!"

The servant had left the room, after bringing the dessert. FrÉdÉrique filled our glasses, then rose, and rang a bell.

"I forgot the best of all," she said.

The servant returned.

"Bring cigars, cigarettes, pipes, and tobacco, Jean. Hurry!"

The baron uttered something very like an oath of admiration.

"SaprÉ tarteff!" he cried; "are ve going to schmoke? Is id bermitted?"

"I not only permit it, but set the example; not always, by the way, but to-night we are so snug and cozy, and I am like Rochebrune, I am satisfied with my supper."

"Ah! do you smoke, madame?"

"Does that surprise you?"

"Nothing surprises me that you do?"

"Really! I don't know whether I ought to take that as a compliment. But I must, must I not? one should take everything in good part."

"Is it possible that I could dream of criticising you, who have been and still are so kind to me?"

"Really! you think that I am kind?—Ah! here is what I sent for."

The servant drew a small table near the supper table, and placed on it a large assortment of pipes, cigars, and several kinds of tobacco. Each of us chose what he liked best. I supposed that FrÉdÉrique would confine herself to cigarettes, but she took a very fine Turkish pipe and filled it with tobacco from the same country. Then she threw herself back in her chair, emptied a glass of malvoisie, and smoked with the abandon of a Mohammedan.

The baron clapped his hands, murmuring:

"Sehr gut! sehr gut! you haf all te qualidies to bleeze."

"Because I smoke? Why, my dear Brunzbrack, many people would call that a vice."

"Ach, ja! I say tat to you id pe most pecoming; you pe a she-pear——"

"A she-bear! Ha! ha! that can't be what you mean."

"Bardon—how do tey say?—an animal of te desert—te female of te king of animals."

"A lionne [lioness]; that is what you mean."

"Ja! you be te lionne À la mode; id is all te same."

I took a cigar, and the baron an ordinary pipe, and in a moment we were all smoking for dear life. Herr von Brunzbrack, whom the pipe seemed to make thirsty, emptied his glass very frequently and belauded the champagne; for my part, the malvoisie suited my taste exactly; and I had such an exquisite sense of well-being, seated at that table beside that original creature, who acted just like a man!

"Messieurs," she said, blowing a cloud of smoke at the ceiling, "life has some very pleasant moments."

"It is delicious to me just now."

"Id runs ein leedle; but id is gut."

"What's that, baron? your life runs a little?"

"I did not untershtand; I said id of mein bibe."

"Oh, indeed!—It's a pity that we have bad days, that melancholy thoughts sometimes take possession of us!"

"Melancholy thoughts come only as a result of disappointments of the heart."

"True, you are right, Rochebrune; that is why your thoughts are so sad to-night, isn't it? The handsome Mondival distanced you; he had the pole to-night. Ha! ha! what a way to talk about love! What will you think of me? that I am a very mauvais sujet, eh?"

"We should be too fortunate if that were so!"

"Ach, ja! as mein frent Rochebrune say—if id vas so—— Sapremann, id is running again!"

"Pray take another pipe, baron; there are enough to choose from."

A thought that had come to my mind several times during supper still absorbed me. I do not know whether FrÉdÉrique could read it in my eyes, but, after looking at me a moment, she said:

"What are you thinking about? Come, tell me! It has come to your lips several times, and you keep it back. Is it something very unkind, pray, that you are afraid to say it?"

"No; it's a very natural reflection, but one that I have no right to make, perhaps."

"But you seem to have taken the liberty to make it. I don't like the things one keeps back; they are more dangerous."

"Your gut healt', montame, and te bleazure id gif me to schmoke tis bibe in your company."

"Thanks, baron, thanks!"

"Vill you trink mit me?"

"Certainly I will."

While she honored Brunzbrack's toast, FrÉdÉrique kept her eyes on me, and they peremptorily bade me to speak.

"Well, madame," I began, hesitatingly.

"Why do you continue to call me madame? I call you Rochebrune."

"But, if not that, what may I presume to call you?"

"I have told you to look upon me as your friend, your comrade. If I were a man, you would call me FrÉdÉrique, as I call you Rochebrune; so, call me FrÉdÉrique."

"I shall never dare!"

"Why not, when I give you leave?"

"Because you don't seem to me in the least like a man."

She smiled queerly, passed her hand over her head, took off her little cap and tossed it on the floor, ran her fingers through her curls, rumpled up the bandeau, and made curls of that, saying, as she thus rearranged her coiffure:

"Does Monsieur Charles Rochebrune refuse to tell me what he has had on the tip of his tongue several times?"

"I beg your pardon, madame—I was thinking—I was surprised—not to find—another person here."

FrÉdÉrique curled her lip and frowned slightly.

"Do you refer to Monsieur Saint-Bergame?" she said.

"Yes."

"It is true that—three days ago—I should not have taken supper without him. But we have quarrelled."

"Ah! you are on bad terms now?"

"Yes."

"Not for long, I presume?"

"Perhaps so. When one has been able to pass two days without trying to see a certain person, one can pass a week; when one has passed a week, there is no reason why one should not pass a month, and so on. He did something that—displeased me, and I told him so. Instead of apologizing, he thought it became him to make a scene, and he made a miserable failure of it. He should have come the next day—that same night, indeed—to beg my pardon; he didn't do it, and now I think it would be too late. Look you, my friend—I want to call you my friend, and you give me leave, do you not, monsieur?—I believe that I can do without Saint-Bergame much better than I thought."

As she spoke, she offered me her hand so prettily that I was tempted to throw my arms about her and kiss her. But I confined myself to taking her hand and putting it to my lips; whereupon she hastily withdrew it, crying:

"Well, well! what in heaven's name is he doing? Are men in the habit of kissing their male friends' hands? that is a new idea, on my word!"