“The fact that you arrive much later at the opera than at the Comedie Francaise.”

“Have you, then, kept watch upon my movements?”

“Only a passing observation of signs—­quite allowable in warfare!”

“But I thought we had made a compact of peace.”

“True enough, we did make it, but suppose it were only an armistice?”

“You are ready, then, to resume hostilities?” said Henri.

“Now that I have Madame la Duchesse, your sister, for an ally, I fear no enemies.”

“Not even if I should call for aid upon the camp of Desvanneaux?”

“Alceste leagued with Tartufe?  That idea never occurred to Moliere,” said Zibeline, mischievously.

“Take care!” said the Duchess, interrupting this skirmishing, “you will fall over into the orchestra!  It is growing late, and if Mademoiselle de Vermont does not wish to remain to see the final conflagration, we might go now, before the crowd begins to leave.”

“I await your orders, Madame la Duchesse,” said Zibeline, rising.

The other ladies followed her example, receiving their cloaks from the hands of their cavaliers, and the occupants of the box made their exit in the following order:  Zibeline, on the arm of the Duke; the Comtesse de Lisieux, leaning upon M. de Nointel; Madame de Nointel with the General; the Duchess bringing up the procession with M. de Lisieux.

As soon as they reached the outer lobby their footmen ran to find their carriages, and that of the Duc de Montgeron advanced first.

“I beg, Madame, that you will not trouble yourself to wait here until my carriage comes,” said Mademoiselle de Vermont to the Duchess, who hesitated to leave her guest alone.

“Since you wish it, I will leave you, then,” said the Duchess, “and we thank you for giving us your society this evening.  My brother will accompany you to your carriage.”

When Zibeline’s vehicle drove up to the entrance in its turn, the General conducted his charge to the door of a marvellously equipped brougham, to which was harnessed a carriage-horse of powerful frame, well suited to the kind of vehicle he drew.

A thaw had begun, not yet transforming the gutters into yellow torrents rushing toward the openings of the sewer, but covering the streets with thick, black mud, over which the wheels rolled noiselessly.

“Your carriage is late, is it not?” said Zibeline, after the General had handed her into the brougham.

“My carriage?” said the General.  “Behold it!”

He pointed to a passing fiacre, at the same time hailing the driver.

“Don’t call him.  I will take you home myself,” said Zibeline, as if such a suggestion were the most natural thing in the world.

“You know that in France it is not the custom,” said the General.

“What!  Do you bother yourself with such things at your age?”

“If my age seems to you a sufficient guaranty, that is different.  I accept your invitation.”