her turn would come. And, moreover, the Marquise knew that as soon as
people learned that the stranger was her cousin, they would suspend
their banter and look twice before they condemned her.

Lucien did not foresee the change in Louise's appearance shortly to be
worked by a scarf about her throat, a pretty dress, an elegant coiffure,
and Mme. d'Espard's advice. As they came up the staircase even now, the
Marquise told her cousin not to hold her handkerchief unfolded in her
hand. Good or bad taste turns upon hundreds of such almost imperceptible
shades, which a quick-witted woman discerns at once, while others will
never grasp them. Mme. de Bargeton, plentifully apt, was more than
clever enough to discover her shortcomings. Mme. d'Espard, sure that her
pupil would do her credit, did not decline to form her. In short, the
compact between the two women had been confirmed by self-interest on
either side.

Mme. de Bargeton, enthralled, dazzled, and fascinated by her cousin's
manner, wit, and acquaintances, had suddenly declared herself a votary
of the idol of the day. She had discerned the signs of the occult power
exerted by the ambitious great lady, and told herself that she could
gain her end as the satellite of this star, so she had been outspoken
in her admiration. The Marquise was not insensible to the artlessly
admitted conquest. She took an interest in her cousin, seeing that she
was weak and poor; she was, besides, not indisposed to take a pupil with
whom to found a school, and asked nothing better than to have a sort
of lady-in-waiting in Mme. de Bargeton, a dependent who would sing her
praises, a treasure even more scarce among Parisian women than a staunch
and loyal critic among the literary tribe. The flutter of curiosity
in the house was too marked to be ignored, however, and Mme. d'Espard
politely endeavored to turn her cousin's mind from the truth.

"If any one comes to our box," she said, "perhaps we may discover the
cause to which we owe the honor of the interest that these ladies are
taking----"

"I have a strong suspicion that it is my old velvet gown and Angoumoisin
air which Parisian ladies find amusing," Mme. de Bargeton answered,
laughing.

"No, it is not you; it is something that I cannot explain," she added,
turning to the poet, and, as she looked at him for the first time, it
seemed to strike her that he was singularly dressed.

"There is M. du Chatelet," exclaimed Lucien at that moment, an