e and greeted the last arrival, while Duroy recommenced alone an
examination of the canvas, as if he could not tear himself away. What
should he do? He heard their voices and their conversation. Mme.
Forestier called him; he hastened toward her. It was to introduce him
to a friend who was on the point of giving a fete, and who wanted a
description of it in "La Vie Francaise."

He stammered: "Certainly, Madame, certainly."

Madame de Marelle was very near him; he dared not turn to go away.
Suddenly to his amazement, she exclaimed: "Good evening, Bel-Ami; do
you not remember me?"

He turned upon his heel hastily; she stood before him smiling, her eyes
overflowing with roguishness and affection. She offered him her hand;
he took it doubtfully, fearing some perfidy. She continued calmly:
"What has become of you? One never sees you!"

Not having regained his self-possession, he murmured: "I have had a
great deal to do, Madame, a great deal to do. M. Walter has given me
another position and the duties are very arduous."

"I know, but that is no excuse for forgetting your friends."

Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a large woman,
decollette, with red arms, red cheeks, and attired in gay colors. As
she was received with effusion, Duroy asked Mme. Forestier: "Who is
that person?"

"Viscountess de Percemur, whose nom de plume is 'Patte Blanche.'"

He was surprised and with difficulty restrained a burst of laughter.

"Patte Blanche? I fancied her a young woman like you. Is that Patte
Blanche? Ah, she is handsome, very handsome!"

A servant appeared at the door and announced: "Madame is served."

Duroy was placed between the manager's plain daughter, Mlle. Rose, and
Mme. de Marelle. The proximity of the latter embarrassed him somewhat,
although she appeared at ease and conversed with her usual spirit.
Gradually, however, his assurance returned, and before the meal was
over, he knew that their relations would be renewed. Wishing, too, to
be polite to his employer's daughter, he addressed her from time to
time. She responded as her mother would have done, without any
hesitation as to what she should say. At M. Walter's right sat
Viscountess de Percemur, and Duroy, looking at her with a smile, asked
Mme. de Marelle in a low voice: "Do you know the one who signs herself
'Domino Rose'?"

"Yes, perfectly; Baroness de Livar."

"Is she like the Countess?"

"No. But she is just as comical. She is sixty