or eight
ladies in summer toilets, and at some little distance Madame Dambreuse
in a rocking armchair. Her dress of lilac taffeta had slashed sleeves,
from which fell muslin puffs, the charming tint of the material
harmonising with the shade of her hair; and she sat slightly thrown back
with the tip of her foot on a cushion, with the repose of an exquisitely
delicate work of art, a flower of high culture.

M. Dambreuse and an old gentleman with a white head were walking from
one end of the drawing-room to the other. Some of the guests chatted
here and there, sitting on the edges of little sofas, while the others,
standing up, formed a circle in the centre of the apartment.

They were talking about votes, amendments, counter-amendments, M.
Grandin's speech, and M. Benoist's reply. The third party had decidedly
gone too far. The Left Centre ought to have had a better recollection
of its origin. Serious attacks had been made on the ministry. It must be
reassuring, however, to see that it had no successor. In short, the
situation was completely analogous to that of 1834.

As these things bored Frederick, he drew near the ladies. Martinon was
beside them, standing up, with his hat under his arm, showing himself in
three-quarter profile, and looking so neat that he resembled a piece of
Sevres porcelain. He took up a copy of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ which
was lying on the table between an _Imitation_ and an _Almanach de
Gotha_, and spoke of a distinguished poet in a contemptuous tone, said
he was going to the "conferences of Saint-Francis," complained of his
larynx, swallowed from time to time a pellet of gummatum, and in the
meantime kept talking about music, and played the part of the elegant
trifler. Mademoiselle Cecile, M. Dambreuse's niece, who happened to be
embroidering a pair of ruffles, gazed at him with her pale blue eyes;
and Miss John, the governess, who had a flat nose, laid aside her
tapestry on his account. Both of them appeared to be exclaiming
internally:

"How handsome he is!"

Madame Dambreuse turned round towards him.

"Please give me my fan which is on that pier-table over there. You are
taking the wrong one! 'tis the other!"

She arose, and when he came across to her, they met in the middle of the
drawing-room face to face. She addressed a few sharp words to him, no
doubt of a reproachful character, judging by the haughty expression of
her face. Martinon tried to smile; then he went to join the