her in a glance, she divined it, and he
thought he could feel her thanks in the rustle of her robe.

In his turn he murmured: "Oh, yes, what a beautiful day!"

When they had taken up the Duchess, in the Rue de Varenne, they spun
along at a swift pace toward the Invalides, crossed the Seine, and
reached the Avenue des Champs-Elysees, going up toward the Arc de
triomphe de l'Etoile in the midst of a sea of carriages.

The young girl was seated beside Olivier, riding backward, and she
opened upon this stream of equipages wide and wondering eager eyes.
Occasionally, when the Duchess and the Countess acknowledged a
salutation with a short movement of the head, she would ask "Who is
that?" Bertin answered: "The Pontaiglin," "the Puicelci," "the Comtesse
de Lochrist," or "the beautiful Madame Mandeliere."

Now they were following the Avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, amid the
noise and the rattling of wheels. The carriages, a little less crowded
than below the Arc de Triomphe, seemed to struggle in an endless race.
The cabs, the heavy landaus, the solemn eight-spring vehicles, passed
one another over and over again, distanced suddenly by a rapid victoria,
drawn by a single trotter, bearing along at a reckless pace, through
all that rolling throng, _bourgeois_ and aristocratic, through all
societies, all classes, all hierarchies, an indolent young woman, whose
bright and striking toilette diffused among the carriages it touched in
passing a strange perfume of some unknown flower.

"Who is that lady?" Annette inquired.

"I don't know," said Bertin, at which reply the Duchess and the Countess
exchanged a smile.

The leaves were opening, the familiar nightingales of that Parisian
garden were singing already among the tender verdure, and when, as the
carriage approached the lake, it joined the long file of other vehicles
at a walk, there was an incessant exchange of salutations, smiles, and
friendly words, as the wheels touched. The procession seemed now like
the gliding of a flotilla in which were seated very well-bred ladies and
gentlemen. The Duchess, who was bowing every moment before raised hats
or inclined heads, appeared to be passing them in review, calling
to mind what she knew, thought, or supposed of these people, as they
defiled before her.

"Look, dearest, there is the lovely Madame Mandeliere again--the beauty
of the Republic."

In a light and dashing carriage, the beauty of the Republic allowed to
be admired