ou will find my daughter in the other
parlor. Have a good time, gentlemen, the house is yours."

And she left them to go to those who had come later, throwing at
Saval that smiling and fleeting glance which women use to show that
they are pleased. Servigny grasped his friend's arm.

"I will pilot you," said he. "In this parlor where we now are,
women, the temples of the fleshly, fresh or otherwise. Bargains as
good as new, even better, for sale or on lease. At the right,
gaming, the temple of money. You understand all about that. At the
lower end, dancing, the temple of innocence, the sanctuary, the
market for young girls. They are shown off there in every light.
Even legitimate marriages are tolerated. It is the future, the hope,
of our evenings. And the most curious part of this museum of moral
diseases are these young girls whose souls are out of joint, just
like the limbs of the little clowns born of mountebanks. Come and
look at them."

He bowed, right and left, courteously, a compliment on his lips,
sweeping each low-gowned woman whom he knew with the look of an
expert.

The musicians, at the end of the second parlor, were playing a
waltz; and the two friends stopped at the door to look at them. A
score of couples were whirling-the men with a serious expression,
and the women with a fixed smile on their lips. They displayed a
good deal of shoulder, like their mothers; and the bodices of some
were only held in place by a slender ribbon, disclosing at times
more than is generally shown.

Suddenly from the end of the room a tall girl darted forward,
gliding through the crowd, brushing against the dancers, and holding
her long train in her left hand. She ran with quick little steps as
women do in crowds, and called out: "Ah! How is Muscade? How do you
do, Muscade?"

Her features wore an expression of the bloom of life, the
illumination of happiness. Her white flesh seemed to shine, the
golden-white flesh which goes with red hair. The mass of her
tresses, twisted on her head, fiery, flaming locks, nestled against
her supple neck, which was still a little thin.

She seemed to move just as her mother was made to speak, so natural,
noble, and simple were her gestures. A person felt a moral joy and
physical pleasure in seeing her walk, stir about, bend her head, or
lift her arm. "Ah! Muscade, how do you do, Muscade?" she repeated.

Servigny shook her hand violently, as he would a man's, and said:
"Mademoiselle