knew how funny, original, and intelligent
she is. She is a Bohemian--a true Bohemian. That is why her husband
scarcely cares for her. He only sees her defects, and does not
appreciate her good qualities."

Duroy felt stupefied at learning that Madame de Marelle was married, and
yet it was only natural that she should be.

He said: "Oh, she is married, then! And what is her husband?"

Madame Forestier gently shrugged her shoulders, and raised her eyebrows,
with a gesture of incomprehensible meaning.

"Oh! he is an inspector on the Northern Railway. He spends eight days
out of the month in Paris. What his wife calls 'obligatory service,' or
'weekly duty,' or 'holy week.' When you know her better you will see how
nice and bright she is. Go and call on her one of these days."

Duroy no longer thought of leaving. It seemed to him that he was going
to stop for ever; that he was at home.

But the door opened noiselessly, and a tall gentleman entered without
being announced. He stopped short on seeing a stranger. Madame Forestier
seemed troubled for a moment; then she said in natural tones, though a
slight rosy flush had risen to her cheeks:

"Come in, my dear sir. I must introduce one of Charles' old friends,
Monsieur George Duroy, a future journalist." Then in another tone, she
added: "Our best and most intimate friend, the Count de Vaudrec."

The two men bowed, looking each other in the eyes, and Duroy at once
took his leave.

There was no attempt to detain him. He stammered a few thanks, grasped
the outstretched hand of Madame Forestier, bowed again to the new-comer,
who preserved the cold, grave air of a man of position, and went out
quite disturbed, as if he had made a fool of himself.

On finding himself once more in the street, he felt sad and uneasy,
haunted by the vague idea of some hidden vexation. He walked on, asking
himself whence came this sudden melancholy. He could not tell, but the
stern face of the Count de Vaudrec, already somewhat aged, with gray
hair, and the calmly insolent look of a very wealthy man, constantly
recurred to his recollection. He noted that the arrival of this unknown,
breaking off a charming _tete-a-tete_, had produced in him that chilly,
despairing sensation that a word overheard, a trifle noticed, the least
thing suffices sometimes to bring about. It seemed to him, too, that
this man, without his being able to guess why, had been displeased at
finding him there.

He had not