widows of that class!"
said Martial. "But my dear Montcornet, we are a couple of simpletons.
That face is still too ingenuous, there is too much youth and
freshness on the brow and temples for her to be married. What splendid
flesh-tints! Nothing has sunk in the modeling of the nose. Lips, chin,
everything in her face is as fresh as a white rosebud, though the
expression is veiled, as it were, by the clouds of sadness. Who can it
be that makes that young creature weep?"

"Women cry for so little," said the Colonel.

"I do not know," replied Martial; "but she does not cry because she is
left there without a partner; her grief is not of to-day. It is evident
that she has beautified herself for this evening with intention. I would
wager that she is in love already."

"Bah! She is perhaps the daughter of some German princeling; no one
talks to her," said Montcornet.

"Dear! how unhappy a poor child may be!" Martial went on. "Can there be
anything more graceful and refined than our little stranger? Well, not
one of those furies who stand round her, and who believe that they can
feel, will say a word to her. If she would but speak, we should see if
she has fine teeth.

"Bless me, you boil over like milk at the least increase of
temperature!" cried the Colonel, a little nettled at so soon finding a
rival in his friend.

"What!" exclaimed the lawyer, without heeding the Colonel's question.
"Can nobody here tell us the name of this exotic flower?"

"Some lady companion!" said Montcornet.

"What next? A companion! wearing sapphires fit for a queen, and a dress
of Malines lace? Tell that to the marines, General. You, too, would not
shine in diplomacy if, in the course of your conjectures, you jump in a
breath from a German princess to a lady companion."

Montcornet stopped a man by taking his arm--a fat little man, whose
iron-gray hair and clever eyes were to be seen at the lintel of every
doorway, and who mingled unceremoniously with the various groups which
welcomed him respectfully.

"Gondreville, my friend," said Montcornet, "who is that quite charming
little woman sitting out there under that huge candelabrum?"

"The candelabrum? Ravrio's work; Isabey made the design."

"Oh, I recognized your lavishness and taste; but the lady?"

"Ah! I do not know. Some friend of my wife's, no doubt."

"Or your mistress, you old rascal."

"No, on my honor. The Comtesse de Gondreville is the only person capable
of inviting