I have often dined with my friend De K., and I have always, or almost always, heard a conversation similar to the preceding.  But I must avow that the evening on which I heard the impertinent remark of this gentleman I was particularly shocked; first, because De K. is my friend, and in the second place because I can not endure people who speak of that of which they know nothing.  I make bold to say that I alone in Paris understand this matter to the bottom.  Yes, yes, I alone; and the reason is not far to seek.  Paul and his brother are in England; Ernest is a consul in America; as for Leon, he is at Hycres in his little subprefecture.  You see, therefore, that in truth I am the only one in Paris who can—­

“But hold, Monsieur Z., you must be joking.  Explain yourself; come to the point.  Do you mean to say that Madame de K.—­oh! dear me! but that is most ’inconvenant’!”

Nothing, nothing!  I am foolish.  Let us suppose that I had not spoken, ladies; let us speak of something else.  How could the idea have got into my head of saying anything about “all the rest”?  Let us talk of something else.

It was a real spring morning, the rain fell in torrents and the north wind blew furiously, when the damsel, more dead than alive——­

The fact is, I feel I can not get out of it.  It will be better to tell all.  Only swear to me to be discreet.  On your word of honor?  Well, then, here goes.

I am, I repeat, the only man in Paris who can speak from knowledge of “all the rest” in regard to Madame de K.

Some years ago—­but do not let us anticipate—­I say, some years ago I had an intimate friend at whose house we met many evenings.  In summer the windows were left open, and we used to sit in armchairs and chat of affairs by the light of our cigars.  Now, one evening, when we were talking of fishing—­all these details are still fresh in my memory—­we heard the sound of a powerful harpsichord, and soon followed the harsh notes of a voice more vigorous than harmonious, I must admit.

“Aha! she has altered her hours,” said Paul, regarding one of the windows of the house opposite.

“Who has changed her hours, my dear fellow?”

“My neighbor.  A robust voice, don’t you think so?  Usually she practises in the morning, and I like that better, for it is the time I go out for a walk.”

Instinctively I glanced toward the lighted window, and through the drawn curtains I distinctly perceived a woman, dressed in white, with her hair loose, and swaying before her instrument like a person conscious that she was alone and responding to her own inspirations.

“My Fernand, go, seek glo-o-o-ry,” she was singing at the top of her voice.  The singing appeared to me mediocre, but the songstress in her peignoir interested me much.

“Gentlemen,” said I, “it appears to me there is behind that frail tissue”—­I alluded to the curtain—­“a very handsome woman.  Put out your cigars, if you please; their light might betray our presence and embarrass the fair singer.”