idea as to what they were thinking about, he
once more approached them. On the opposite side of the table, Martinon,
seated near Mademoiselle Cecile, was turning over the leaves of an
album. It contained lithographs representing Spanish costumes. He read
the descriptive titles aloud: "A Lady of Seville," "A Valencia
Gardener," "An Andalusian Picador"; and once, when he had reached the
bottom of the page, he continued all in one breath:

"Jacques Arnoux, publisher. One of your friends, eh?"

"That is true," said Frederick, hurt by the tone he had assumed.

Madame Dambreuse again interposed:

"In fact, you came here one morning--about a house, I believe--a house
belonging to his wife." (This meant: "She is your mistress.")

He reddened up to his ears; and M. Dambreuse, who joined them at the
same moment, made this additional remark:

"You appear even to be deeply interested in them."

These last words had the effect of putting Frederick out of countenance.
His confusion, which, he could not help feeling, was evident to them,
was on the point of confirming their suspicions, when M. Dambreuse drew
close to him, and, in a tone of great seriousness, said:

"I suppose you don't do business together?"

He protested by repeated shakes of the head, without realising the exact
meaning of the capitalist, who wished to give him advice.

He felt a desire to leave. The fear of appearing faint-hearted
restrained him. A servant carried away the teacups. Madame Dambreuse was
talking to a diplomatist in a blue coat. Two young girls, drawing their
foreheads close together, showed each other their jewellery. The others,
seated in a semicircle on armchairs, kept gently moving their white
faces crowned with black or fair hair. Nobody, in fact, minded them.
Frederick turned on his heels; and, by a succession of long zigzags, he
had almost reached the door, when, passing close to a bracket, he
remarked, on the top of it, between a china vase and the wainscoting, a
journal folded up in two. He drew it out a little, and read these
words--_The Flambard_.

Who had brought it there? Cisy. Manifestly no one else. What did it
matter, however? They would believe--already, perhaps, everyone
believed--in the article. What was the cause of this rancour? He wrapped
himself up in ironical silence. He felt like one lost in a desert. But
suddenly he heard Martinon's voice:

"Talking of Arnoux, I saw in the newspapers, amongst the names of those