Papillon pointed out to him with so much deference, they did not impress
him so much as certain visitors who belonged to the world of art and
letters. In considering them the young man was much surprised and a
little saddened at the want of harmony that he discovered between the
appearance of the men and the nature of their talents. The poet Leroy
des Saules had the haughty attitude and the Apollo face corresponding
to the noble and perfect beauty of his verses; but Edouard Durocher,
the fashionable painter of the nineteenth century, was a large,
common-looking man with a huge moustache, like that of a book agent; and
Theophile de Sonis, the elegant story-writer, the worldly romancer, had
a copper-colored nose, and his harsh beard was like that of a chief in a
custom-house.

What attracted Amedee's attention, above all things, were the women--the
fashionable women that he saw close by for the first time. Some of them
were old, and horrified him. The jewels with which they were loaded made
their fatigued looks, dark-ringed eyes, heavy profiles, thick flabby
lips, like a dromedary's, still more distressing; and with their bare
necks and arms--it was etiquette at Madame Fontaine's receptions--which
allowed one to see through filmy lace their flabby flesh or bony
skeletons, they were as ridiculous as an elegant cloak would be upon an
old crone.

As he saw these decrepit, painted creatures, the young man felt the
respect that he should have for the old leave him. He would look only
at the young and beautiful women, those with graceful figures and
triumphant smiles upon their lips, flowers in their hair, and diamonds
upon their necks. All this bare flesh intimidated Amedee; for he had
been brought up so privately and strictly that he was distressed enough
to lower his eyes at the sight of so many arms, necks, and shoulders.
He thought of Maria Gerard as she looked the other day, when he met her
going to work in the Louvre, so pretty in her short high-necked dress,
her magnificent hair flying out from her close bonnet, and her box
of pastels in her hand. How much more he preferred this simple rose,
concealed among thorns, to all these too full-blown peonies!

Soon the enormous and amiable Countess came to the poet and begged him,
to his great confusion, to recite a few verses. He was forced to do it.
It was his turn to lean upon the mantel. Fortunately it was a success
for him; all the full-blown peonies, who did not underst