mythological goddess painted by a Flemish painter, and in her
large white hands she held a golden crown, which another hand, whiter
and more delicate, had slipped in, in passing.

She stood before the door, so as to bar Ernanton's passage.

"What do you want?" said she to him.

"Were not three whistles given from one of those windows just now?"

"Yes."

"Well, they were to summon me."

"You?"

"Yes."

"On your honor?"

"As a gentleman, Dame Fournichon."

"Enter, then, monsieur, enter."

And happy at having a client after her own heart, fit for the "Rose-tree
of love," the hostess conducted Ernanton up the stairs herself. A little
door, vulgarly painted, gave access to a sort of antechamber, which led
to a room, furnished, decorated, and carpeted with rather more luxury
than might have been expected in this remote corner of Paris; but this
was Madame Fournichon's favorite room and she had exerted all her taste
to embellish it.

When the young man entered the antechamber, he smelled a strong aromatic
odor, the work, doubtless, of some susceptible person, who had thus
tried to overcome the smell of cooking exhaled from the kitchen.

Ernanton, after opening the door, stopped for an instant to contemplate
one of those elegant female figures which must always command attention,
if not love. Reposing on cushions, enveloped in silk and velvet, this
lady was occupied in burning in the candle the end of a little stick of
aloes, over which she bent so as to inhale the full perfume. By the
manner in which she threw the branch in the fire, and pulled her hood
over her masked face, Ernanton perceived that she had heard him enter,
but she did not turn.

"Madame," said the young man, "you sent for your humble servant--here he
is."

"Ah! very well," said the lady; "sit down, I beg, M. Ernanton."

"Pardon, madame, but before anything I must thank you for the honor that
you do me."

"Ah! that is civil, and you are right; but I presume you do not know
whom you are thanking, M. de Carmainges."

"Madame, you have your face hidden by a mask and your hands by gloves; I
cannot then recognize you--I can but guess."

"And you guess who I am?"

"Her whom my heart desires, whom my imagination paints, young,
beautiful, powerful, and rich; too rich and too powerful for me to be
able to believe that what has happened to me is real, and that I am not
dreaming."

"Had you any trouble to enter here?" asked the lady, without r