y," he remarked, "I saw Girmandel just now in a carriage."

Madame Nanteuil made no comment.

"He was driving down the Boulevard Saint-Michel in a cab. I certainly
thought I recognized him. I should be greatly surprised if it wasn't
he."

Madame Nanteuil made no comment.

"His fair beard, his high colour--he's an easy man to recognize,
Girmandel."

Madame Nanteuil made no comment.

"You were very friendly with him at one time, you and Felicie. Do you
still see him?"

"Monsieur Girmandel? Oh yes, we still see him," replied Madame Nanteuil
softly.

These words made Chevalier feel almost happy. But she had deceived him;
she had not spoken the truth. She had lied out of self-respect, and in
order not to reveal a domestic secret which she regarded as derogatory
to the honour of her family. The truth was that, being carried away by
her passion for Ligny, Felicie had given Girmandel the go-by, and he,
being a man of the world, had promptly cut off supplies. Madame
Nanteuil, despite her years, had resumed an old lover, out of her love
for her child, that she might not want for anything. She had renewed her
former liaison with Tony Meyer, the picture-dealer in the Rue de Clichy.
Tony Meyer was a poor substitute for Girmandel; he was none too free
with his money. Madame Nanteuil, who was wise and knew the value of
things, did not complain on that account, and she was rewarded for her
devotion, for, in the six weeks during which she had been loved anew,
she had grown young again.

Chevalier, following up his idea, inquired:

"You would hardly say that Girmandel was still a young man, would you?"

"He is not old," said Madame Nanteuil. "A man is not old at forty."

"A bit used up, isn't he?"

"Oh, dear no," replied Madame Nanteuil, quite calmly.

Chevalier became thoughtful and was silent. Madame Nanteuil began to
nod. Then, being aroused from her somnolence by the servant, who brought
in the salt-cellar and the water-bottle, she inquired:

"And you, Monsieur Chevalier, is all well with you?"

No, all was not well with him. The critics were out to "down" him. And
the proof that they had combined against him was that they all said the
same thing; they said his face lacked expression.

"My face lacking in expression!" he cried indignantly. "They should have
called it a predestined face. Madame Nanteuil, I aim high, and it is
that which does me harm. For example, in _La Nuit du 23 octobre_, which
is being rehears