voice did him good, a voice that was famous in the drawing-rooms of Paris and that in spite of all its magnificence had nothing theatrical about it, but seemed an emotional utterance vibrating over unstudied sonorities.  The singer, a woman of forty or forty-five, had splendid ash-blond hair, delicate, rather nerveless features, a striking expression of kindness.  Still good-looking, she was dressed in the costly taste of a woman who has not given up the thought of pleasing.  Indeed, she was far from having given it up.  Married a dozen years ago, for a second time, to the doctor, they seemed still to be at the first months of their dual happiness.  While she sang a popular Russian melody, savage and sweet like the smile of a Slav, Jenkins was ingenuously proud, without seeking to dissimulate the fact, his broad face all beaming; and she, each time that she bent her head as she regained her breath, glanced in his direction a timid, affectionate smile that flew to seek him over the unfolded music.  And then, when she had finished amid an admiring and delighted murmur, it was touching to notice how discreetly she gave her husband’s hand a secret squeeze, as though to secure to themselves a corner of private bliss in the midst of her great triumph.  Young de Gery was feeling cheered by the spectacle of this happy couple, when quite close to him a voice murmured—­it was not, however, the same voice that he had heard just before: 

“You know what they say—­that the Jenkinses are not married.”

“How absurd!”

“I assure you.  It would seem that there is a veritable Mme. Jenkins somewhere, but not the lady we know.  Besides, have you noticed——­”

The dialogue continued in an undertone.  Mme. Jenkins advanced, bowing, smiling, while the doctor, stopping a tray that was being borne round, brought her a glass of claret with the alacrity of a mother, an impresario, a lover.  Calumny, calumny, ineffaceable defilement!  To the provincial young man, Jenkins’s attentions now seemed exaggerated.  He fancied that there was something affected about them, something deliberate, and, too, in the words of thanks which she addressed in a low voice to her husband he thought he could detect a timidity, a submissiveness, not consonant with the dignity of the legitimate spouse, glad and proud in an assured happiness.  “But Society is a hideous affair!” said de Gery to himself, dismayed and with cold hands.  The smiles around him had upon him the effect of hypocritical grimaces.  He felt shame and disgust.  Then suddenly revolting:  “Come, it is not possible.”  And, as though in reply to this exclamation, behind him the scandalous tongue resumed in an easy tone:  “After all, you know, I cannot vouch for its truth.  I am only repeating what I have heard.  But look!  Baroness Hemerlingue.  He gets all Paris, this Jenkins.”