must be his friend's wife completed
his alarm.

He stammered: "Madame, I am--"

She held out her hand, saying: "I know, sir; Charles has told me of your
meeting last evening, and I am very pleased that he had the idea of
asking you to dine with us to-day."

He blushed up to his ears, not knowing what to say, and felt himself
examined from head to foot, reckoned up, and judged.

He longed to excuse himself, to invent some pretext for explaining the
deficiencies of his toilet, but he could not think of one, and did not
dare touch on this difficult subject.

He sat down on an armchair she pointed out to him, and as he felt the
soft and springy velvet-covered seat yield beneath his weight, as he
felt himself, as it were, supported and clasped by the padded back and
arms, it seemed to him that he was entering upon a new and enchanting
life, that he was taking possession of something delightful, that he was
becoming somebody, that he was saved, and he looked at Madame Forestier,
whose eyes had not quitted him.

She was attired in a dress of pale blue cashmere, which set off the
outline of her slender waist and full bust. Her arms and neck issued
from a cloud of white lace, with which the bodice and short sleeves were
trimmed, and her fair hair, dressed high, left a fringe of tiny curls at
the nape of her neck.

Duroy recovered his assurance beneath her glance, which reminded him,
without his knowing why, of that of the girl met overnight at the Folies
Bergere. She had gray eyes, of a bluish gray, which imparted to them a
strange expression; a thin nose, full lips, a rather fleshy chin, and
irregular but inviting features, full of archness and charm. It was one
of those faces, every trait of which reveals a special grace, and seems
to have its meaning--every movement to say or to hide something. After a
brief silence she asked: "Have you been long in Paris?"

He replied slowly, recovering his self-possession: "A few months only,
Madame. I have a berth in one of the railway companies, but Forestier
holds out the hope that I may, thanks to him, enter journalism."

She smiled more plainly and kindly, and murmured, lowering her voice:
"Yes, I know."

The bell had rung again. The servant announced "Madame de Marelle."

This was a little brunette, who entered briskly, and seemed to be
outlined--modeled, as it were--from head to foot in a dark dress made
quite plainly. A red rose placed in her black hair caught the eye a