“Monsieur Malignon!” announced the servant.

A tall young man, dressed in good style, was ushered in.  Some exclamations greeted him.  Madame Deberle, not taking the trouble to rise, stretched out her hand and inquired:  “Well! what of yesterday at the Vaudeville?”

“Vile!” was his reply.

“What! vile!  She’s marvellous when she clutches her bosom and throws back her head—­”

“Stop! stop!  The whole thing is loathsome in its realism.”

And then quite a dispute commenced.  It was easy to talk of realism, but the young man would have no realism at all.

“I would not have it in anything, you hear!” said he, raising his voice.  “No, not in anything! it degrades art.”

People would soon be seeing some fine things on the stage, indeed!  Why didn’t Noemi follow out her actions to their logical conclusion?  And he illustrated his remark with a gesture which quite scandalized the ladies.  Oh, how horrible!  However, when Madame Deberle had declared that the actress produced a great effect, and Madame Levasseur had related how a lady had fainted in the balcony, everybody agreed that the affair was a great success; and with this the discussion stopped short.

The young man sat in an arm-chair, with his legs stretched out among the ladies’ flowing skirts.  He seemed to be quite at home in the doctor’s house.  He had mechanically plucked a flower from a vase, and was tearing it to pieces with his teeth.  Madame Deberle interrupted him: 

“Have you read that novel which—­”

He did not allow her to finish, but replied, with a superior air, that he only read two novels in the year.

As for the exhibition of paintings at the Art Club, it was not worth troubling about; and then, every topic being exhausted, he rose and leaned over Juliette’s little sofa, conversing with her in a low voice, while the other ladies continued chatting together in an animated manner.

At length:  “Dear me! he’s gone,” exclaimed Madame Berthier turning round.  “I met him only an hour ago in Madame Robinot’s drawing-room.”

“Yes, and he is now going to visit Madame Lecomte,” said Madame Deberle.  “He goes about more than any other man in Paris.”  She turned to Helene, who had been following the scene, and added:  “A very distinguished young fellow he is, and we like him very much.  He has some interest in a stockbroking business; he’s very rich besides, and well posted in everything.”

The other ladies, however, were now going off.

“Good-bye, dear madame.  I rely upon you for Wednesday.”

“Yes, to be sure; Wednesday.”

“Oh, by the way, will you be at that evening party?  One doesn’t know whom one may meet.  If you go, I’ll go.”

“Ah, well!  I’ll go, I promise you.  Give my best regards to Monsieur de Guiraud.”

When Madame Deberle returned she found Helene standing in the middle of the drawing-room.  Jeanne had drawn close to her mother, whose hands she firmly grasped; and thus clinging to her caressingly and almost convulsively, she was drawing her little by little towards the doorway.