s
she is looking after her little son, who is finishing his studies at
the Lycee Bonaparte. The Countess's drawing-rooms are open every evening
until the end of the month, and one meets there all the chic people
who are delayed in Paris, or who stop here between two journeys. Madame
Fontaine is a very amiable and influential old lady; she has a fancy for
writers when they are good company. Do not be silly, but go and order
yourself some evening clothes. By presenting you there, my dear fellow,
I assure you, perhaps in fifteen years, a seat in the Academy. It is
agreed! Get ready for next week."

Attention! Amedee Violette is about to make his first appearance in
society.

Although his concierge, who aided him to finish his toilette and saw him
put on his white cravat, had just said to him, "What a love of a husband
you would make!" the poet's heart beat rapidly when the carriage in
which he was seated beside Arthur Papillon stopped before the steps
of an old house in the Rue de Bellechasse, where Madame la Comtesse
Fontaine lived.

In the vestibule he tried to imitate the advocate's bearing, which was
full of authority; but quickly despaired of knowing how to swell out his
starched shirt-front under the severe looks of four tall lackeys in silk
stockings. Amedee was as much embarrassed as if he were presented
naked before an examining board. But they doubtless found him "good for
service," for the door opened into a brightly lighted drawing-room into
which he followed Arthur Papillon, like a frail sloop towed in by an
imposing three-master, and behold the timid Amedee presented in due form
to the mistress of the house! She was a lady of elephantine proportions,
in her sixtieth year, and wore a white camellia stuck in her
rosewood-colored hair. Her face and arms were plastered with enough
flour to make a plate of fritters; but for all that, she had a grand
air and superb eyes, whose commanding glance was softened by so kindly a
smile that Amedee was a trifle reassured.

She had much applauded M. Violette's beautiful verse, she said, that
Jocquelet had recited at her house on the last Thursday of her season;
and she had just read with the greatest pleasure his Poems from
Nature. She thanked M. Papillon--who bows his head and lets his monocle
fall--for having brought M. Violette. She was charmed to make his
acquaintance.

Amedee was very much embarrassed to know what to reply to this
commonplace compliment which was