nt their meeting
again--the end of the world, for example. M. Lagrange, member of the
Academie des Sciences, had told her the day before of a comet which some
day might meet the earth, envelop it with its flaming hair, imbue animals
and plants with unknown poisons, and make all men die in a frenzy of
laughter. She expected that this, or something else, would happen next
month. It was not inexplicable that she wished to go. But that her desire
to go should contain a vague joy, that she should feel the charm of what
she was to find, was inexplicable to her.

Her carriage left her at the corner of a street.

There, under the roof of a tall house, behind five windows, in a small,
neat apartment, Madame Marmet had lived since the death of her husband.

Countess Martin found her in her modest drawing-room, opposite M.
Lagrange, half asleep in a deep armchair. This worldly old savant had
remained ever faithful to her. He it was who, the day after M. Marmet's
funeral, had conveyed to the unfortunate widow the poisoned speech
delivered by Schmoll. She had fainted in his arms. Madame Marmet thought
that he lacked judgment, but he was her best friend. They dined together
often with rich friends.

Madame Martin, slender and erect in her zibeline corsage opening on a
flood of lace, awakened with the charming brightness of her gray eyes the
good man, who was susceptible to the graces of women. He had told her the
day before how the world would come to an end. He asked her whether she
had not been frightened at night by pictures of the earth devoured by
flames or frozen to a mass of ice. While he talked to her with affected
gallantry, she looked at the mahogany bookcase. There were not many books
in it, but on one of the shelves was a skeleton in armor. It amazed one
to see in this good lady's house that Etruscan warrior wearing a green
bronze helmet and a cuirass. He slept among boxes of bonbons, vases of
gilded porcelain, and carved images of the Virgin, picked up at Lucerne
and on the Righi. Madame Marmet, in her widowhood, had sold the books
which her husband had left. Of all the ancient objects collected by the
archaeologist, she had retained nothing except the Etruscan. Many persons
had tried to sell it for her. Paul Vence had obtained from the
administration a promise to buy it for the Louvre, but the good widow
would not part with it. It seemed to her that if she lost that warrior
with his green bronze helmet she would lose