ed to the defense, give to women an
overwhelming superiority over any man who is not a boor or a lover. In the
particular crisis that was threatening me, the stinging consciousness of
my wrongs, the recollection of the almost insulting form under which my
offense had manifested itself, united to deprive me of all thought of
resistance; I found myself delivered over, bound hand and foot, to the
frightful wrath of a young and imperious woman thirsting for vengeance. My
attitude was, therefore, not very brilliant.

Madame de Palme stopped within two steps of me, spread her right hand on
the marble of the mantel, and extended toward the blazing hearth the
bronzed slipper within which her left foot was held captive. Having
accomplished these preliminary dispositions, she turned toward me, and
without addressing me a single word, she seemed to enjoy my countenance,
which, I repeat, was not worth much. I resolved to sit down again and
resume my reading; but previously, and by way of transition, I thought
best to say politely:

"Wouldn't you like to have this review, madam?"

"Thank you, sir, I cannot read."

Such was the answer that was promptly shot off at me in a brief tone of
voice. I made with my head and my hand a courteous gesture, by which I
seemed to sympathize gently with the infirmity that was thus revealed to
me, after which I sat down, feeling more easy. I had drawn my adversary's
fire. Honor seemed to me satisfied.

Nevertheless, after a few moments of silence, I began again to feel the
awkwardness of my situation; I strove in vain to become absorbed in my
reading; I kept seeing a multitude of little bronzed slippers dancing all
over the paper. An open scene would have appeared to me decidedly
preferable to this unpleasant and persistent proximity, to the mute
hostility betrayed to my furtive glance by Madame de Palme's restless
foot, the jingle of her rings on the marble mantel, and the quivering
mobility of her nostrils. I therefore unconsciously uttered a sigh of
relief when the door, opening suddenly, introduced upon the stage a new
personage, whom I felt justified in considering as an ally.

It was a lady--a school-friend of Lady A----, whose name is Madame
Durmaitre. She is a widow, and extremely handsome; she is noted for a
lesser degree of folly amid the wild and worldly ladies of the chateau.
For this reason, and somewhat also on account of her superior charms, she
has long since conquered the ill-w