ed;
to see her kneeling before the princess, an old, good, straightforward
soul, of whom the Fuernberg was always saying, "Call that a
princess--that!"

"I beg of you, godmamma, don't go away yet."

She surrounded her with all sorts of cajoleries, of graces, of little
airs, without telling her, to be sure, that she wanted to keep her till
the arrival of the Jansoulets, to add to her triumph.

"But," said the princess, pointing out to her the majestic Armenian,
silent and grave, his tasselled hat on his knees, "I must take this poor
bishop to the _Grand Saint-Christophe_, to buy some medals. He would
never get on without me."

"No, no, I wish--you must--a few minutes more." And the baroness threw a
furtive look on the ancient and sumptuous clock in a corner of the room.

Five o'clock already, and the great Afchin not arrived. The Levantines
began to laugh behind their fans. Happily tea was just being served,
also Spanish wines, and a crowd of delicious Turkish cakes which were
only to be had in that house, whose receipts, brought away with her by
the favourite, had been preserved in the harem, like some secrets of
confectionery on our convents. That made a diversion. Hemerlingue, who
on Saturdays came out of his office from time to time to make his bow to
the ladies, was drinking a glass of Madeira near the little table while
talking to Maurice Trott, once the dresser of Said-Pasha, when his wife
approached him, gently and quietly. He knew what anger this impenetrable
calm must cover, and asked her, in a low tone, timidly:

"No one?"

"No one. You see to what an insult you expose me."

She smiled, her eyes half closed, taking with the end of her nail a
crumb of cake from his long black whiskers, but her little transparent
nostrils trembled with a terrible eloquence.

"Oh, she will come," said the banker, his mouth full. "I am sure she
will come."

The noise of dresses, of a train rustling in the next room made the
baroness turn quickly. But, to the great joy of the "bundles," looking
on from their corners, it was not the lady they were expecting.

This tall, elegant blonde, with worn features and irreproachable
toilette, was not like Mlle. Afchin. She was worthy in every way to bear
a name as celebrated as that of Dr. Jenkins. In the last two or three
months the beautiful Mme. Jenkins had greatly changed, become much
older. In the life of a woman who has long remained young there comes a
time when the years