“Well, well,” said the Duchess in an altered tone.

“I am able to be of great service,” Asie went on, “for we hear the husbands’ secrets as well as the wives’.  I have done many little jobs for Monsieur de Marsay, whom Madame la Duchesse——­”

“That will do, that will do!” cried the Duchess.  “What about Lucien?”

“If you wish to save him, madame, you must have courage enough to lose no time in dressing.  But, indeed, Madame la Duchesse, you could not look more charming than you do at this moment.  You are sweet enough to charm anybody, take an old woman’s word for it!  In short, madame, do not wait for your carriage, but get into my hackney coach.  Come to Madame de Serizy’s if you hope to avert worse misfortunes than the death of that cherub——­”

“Go on, I will follow you,” said the Duchess after a moment’s hesitation.  “Between us we may give Leontine some courage . . .”

Notwithstanding the really demoniacal activity of this Dorine of the hulks, the clock was striking two when she and the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse went into the Comtesse de Serizy’s house in the Rue de la Chaussee-d’Antin.  Once there, thanks to the Duchess, not an instant was lost.  The two women were at once shown up to the Countess, whom they found reclining on a couch in a miniature chalet, surrounded by a garden fragrant with the rarest flowers.

“That is well,” said Asie, looking about her.  “No one can overhear us.”

“Oh! my dear, I am half dead!  Tell me, Diane, what have you done?” cried the Duchess, starting up like a fawn, and, seizing the Duchess by the shoulders, she melted into tears.

“Come, come, Leontine; there are occasions when women like us must not cry, but act,” said the Duchess, forcing the Countess to sit down on the sofa by her side.

Asie studied the Countess’ face with the scrutiny peculiar to those old hands, which pierces to the soul of a woman as certainly as a surgeon’s instrument probes a wound!—­the sorrow that engraves ineradicable lines on the heart and on the features.  She was dressed without the least touch of vanity.  She was now forty-five, and her printed muslin wrapper, tumbled and untidy, showed her bosom without any art or even stays!  Her eyes were set in dark circles, and her mottled cheeks showed the traces of bitter tears.  She wore no sash round her waist; the embroidery on her petticoat and shift was all crumpled.  Her hair, knotted up under a lace cap, had not been combed for four-and-twenty hours, and showed as a thin, short plait and ragged little curls.  Leontine had forgotten to put on her false hair.

“You are in love for the first time in your life?” said Asie sententiously.

Leontine then saw the woman and started with horror.

“Who is that, my dear Diane?” she asked of the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse.

“Whom should I bring with me but a woman who is devoted to Lucien and willing to help us?”