A few men were present, a very small number, however, and all of them personages of note, laden with years and decorations.  They were standing about near couches, leaning over the backs of chairs, with that air of condescension which men assume when speaking to children.  But in the peaceful buzz of these conversations, one voice rang out piercing and brazen, that of the Nabob, who was tranquilly performing his evolutions across this social hothouse with the assurance bestowed upon him by his immense wealth, and a certain contempt for women which he had brought back from the East.

At that moment, comfortably installed on a settee, his big hands in yellow gloves crossed carelessly one over the other, he was talking with a very handsome woman, whose original physiognomy—­much vitality coupled with severe features—­stood out pale among the pretty faces about her, just as her dress, all white, classic in its folds and following closely the lines of her supple figure, contrasted with toilettes that were richer, but among which none had that air of daring simplicity.  From his corner, de Gery admired the low and smooth forehead beneath its fringe of downward combed hair, the well-opened eyes, deep blue in colour, an abysmal blue, the mouth which ceased to smile only to relax its pure curve into an expression that was weary and drooping.  In sum, the rather haughty mien of an exceptional being.

Somebody near him mentioned her name—­Felicia Ruys.  At once he understood the rare attraction of this young girl, the continuer of her father’s genius, whose budding celebrity had penetrated even to the remote country district where he had lived, with the aureole of reputed beauty.  While he stood gazing at her, admiring her least gestures, a little perplexed by the enigma of her handsome countenance, he heard whispers behind him.

“But see how pleasant she is with the Nabob!  If the duke were to come in!”

“The Duc de Mora is coming?”

“Certainly.  It is for him that the party is given; to bring about a meeting between him and Jansoulet.”

“And you think that the duke and Mlle. Ruys——­”

“Where have you come from?  It is an intrigue known to all Paris.  The affair dates from the last exhibition, for which she did a bust of him.”

“And the duchess?”

“Bah! it is not her first experience of that sort.  Ah! there is Mme. Jenkins going to sing.”

There was a movement in the drawing-room, a more violent swaying of the crowd near the door, and conversation ceased for a moment.  Paul de Gery breathed.  What he had just heard had oppressed his heart.  He felt himself reached, soiled, by this mud flung in handfuls over the ideal which in his own mind he had formed of that splendid adolescence, matured by the sun of Art to so penetrating a charm.  He moved away a little, changed his place.  He feared to hear again some whispered infamy.  Mme. Jenkins’s