a club.
They say, 'I promise to give you a white ball. It will be an alabaster
ball--a snowball! They vote. It's a black ball. Life seems a vile affair
when I think of it."

"Then don't think of it."

Daniel Salomon, who had joined them, whispered in their ears spicy
stories in a lowered voice. And at every strange revelation concerning
Madame Raymond, or Madame Berthier, or Princess Seniavine, he added,
negligently:

"Everybody knows it."

Then, little by little, the crowd of visitors dispersed. Only Madame
Marmet and Paul Vence remained.

The latter went toward Madame Martin, and asked:

"When do you wish me to introduce Dechartre to you?"

It was the second time he had asked this of her. She did not like to see
new faces. She replied, unconcernedly:

"Your sculptor? When you wish. I saw at the Champ de Mars medallions
made by him which are very good. But he does not work much. He is an
amateur, is he not?"

"He is a delicate artist. He does not need to work in order to live. He
caresses his figures with loving slowness. But do not be deceived about
him, Madame. He knows and he feels. He would be a master if he did not
live alone. I have known him since his childhood. People think that he
is solitary and morose. He is passionate and timid. What he lacks, what
he will lack always to reach the highest point of his art, is simplicity
of mind. He is restless, and he spoils his most beautiful impressions.
In my opinion he was created less for sculpture than for poetry or
philosophy. He knows a great deal, and you will be astonished at the
wealth of his mind."

Madame Marmet approved.

She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it. She listened
a great deal and talked little. Very affable, she gave value to her
affability by not squandering it. Either because she liked Madame
Martin, or because she knew how to give discreet marks of preference in
every house she went, she warmed herself contentedly, like a relative,
in a corner of the Louis XVI chimney, which suited her beauty. She
lacked only her dog.

"How is Toby?" asked Madame Martin. "Monsieur Vence, do you know Toby?
He has long silky hair and a lovely little black nose."

Madame Marmet was relishing the praise of Toby, when an old man, pink
and blond, with curly hair, short-sighted, almost blind under his golden
spectacles, rather short, striking against the furniture, bowing to
empty armchairs, blundering into the mirrors, pushed his croo