and the Irishman had already felt the effect of those
bewilderingly sudden changes of the wind which make Parisian
infatuations so dangerous.

It was for that reason, doubtless, that Jenkins had deemed it advisable
to disappear for some time, leaving Madame to continue to frequent the
salons that were still open, in order to feel the pulse of public
opinion and hold it in awe. It was a cruel task for the poor woman, who
found everywhere something of the same cold, distant reception she had
met with at Hemerlingue's. But she did not complain, hoping in this way
to earn her marriage, to knit between him and herself, as a last resort,
the painful bond of pity, of trials undergone in common. And as she knew
that she was always in demand in society because of her talent, because
of the artistic entertainment she furnished at select parties, being
always ready to lay her long gloves and her fan on the piano, as a
prelude to some portion of her rich repertory, she labored constantly,
passed her afternoons turning over new music, selecting by preference
melancholy and complicated pieces, the modern music which is no longer
content to be an art but is becoming a science, and is much better
adapted to the demands of our nervous fancies, our anxieties, than to
the demands of sentiment.

"C'est moins qu'un moment,
Un pen plus qu'un reve.
Le temps nous enleve
Notre enchantement."

A flood of bright light suddenly burst into the salon with the maid, who
brought her mistress a card: "Heurteux, _homme d'affaires_."

The gentleman was waiting. He insisted on seeing Madame.

"Did you tell him that the doctor was away from home?"

She had told him; but it was Madame with whom he wished to speak.

"With me?"

With a feeling of uneasiness she scrutinized that coarse, rough card,
that unfamiliar, harsh name: "Heurteux." Who could he be?

"Very well; show him in."

Heurteux, _homme d'affaires_, coming from the bright sunlight into the
semi-darkness of the salon, blinked uncertainly, tried to distinguish
his surroundings. She, on the contrary, distinguished very clearly a
stiff, wooden figure, grizzly whiskers, a protruding under-jaw, one of
those brigands of the Law whom we meet in the outskirts of the Palais de
Justice, and who seem to have been born fifty years old, with a bitter
expression about the mouth, an envious manner, and morocco satchels
under their arms. He sat down on the edge of the chair to which she
waved