Camors hesitated; then said, hastily, “No, no!  Impossible!  I have an engagement which I must keep.”

Notwithstanding Camors’s unwillingness, Lescande detained him until he had extorted a promise to come and dine with them—­that is, with him, his wife, and his mother-in-law, Madame Mursois—­on the following Tuesday.  This acceptance left a cloud on the spirit of Camors until the appointed day.  Besides abhorring family dinners, he objected to being reminded of the scene of the balcony.  The indiscreet kindness of Lescande both touched and irritated him; for he knew he should play but a silly part near this pretty woman.  He felt sure she was a coquette, notwithstanding which, the recollections of his youth and the character of her husband should make her sacred to him.  So he was not in the most agreeable frame of mind when he stepped out of his dog-cart, that Tuesday evening, before the little villa of the Avenue Maillot.

At his reception by Madame Lescande and her mother he took heart a little.  They appeared to him what they were, two honest-hearted women, surrounded by luxury and elegance.  The mother—­an ex-beauty—­had been left a widow when very young, and to this time had avoided any stain on her character.  With them, innate delicacy held the place of those solid principles so little tolerated by French society.  Like a few other women of society, Madame had the quality of virtue just as ermine has the quality of whiteness.  Vice was not so repugnant to her as an evil as it was as a blemish.  Her daughter had received from her those instincts of chastity which are oftener than we imagine hidden under the appearance of pride.  But these amiable women had one unfortunate caprice, not uncommon at this day among Parisians of their position.  Although rather clever, they bowed down, with the adoration of bourgeoises, before that aristocracy, more or less pure, that paraded up and down the Champs Elysees, in the theatres, at the race-course, and on the most frequented promenades, its frivolous affairs and rival vanities.

Virtuous themselves, they read with interest the daintiest bits of scandal and the most equivocal adventures that took place among the elite.  It was their happiness and their glory to learn the smallest details of the high life of Paris; to follow its feasts, speak in its slang, copy its toilets, and read its favorite books.  So that if not the rose, they could at least be near the rose and become impregnated with her colors and her perfumes.  Such apparent familiarity heightened them singularly in their own estimation and in that of their associates.

Now, although Camors did not yet occupy that bright spot in the heaven of fashion which was surely to be his one day, still he could here pass for a demigod, and as such inspire Madame Lescande and her mother with a sentiment of most violent curiosity.  His early intimacy with Lescande had always connected a peculiar interest with his name:  and they knew the names of his horses—­most likely knew the names of his mistresses.