ger of such conversations, in which a Parisian
woman excels; he feared the marquise would extract some admission from
him which she would instantly turn into ridicule among her friends. He
therefore withdrew, prudently, as Lady Dudley entered.

"Well?" said the Englishwoman to the marquise, "how far have they got?"

"They are madly in love; he has just told me so."

"I wish he were uglier," said Lady Dudley, with a viperish look at Comte
Felix. "In other respects he is just what I want him: the son of a Jew
broker who died a bankrupt soon after his marriage; but the mother was a
Catholic, and I am sorry to say she made a Christian of the boy."

This origin, which Nathan thought carefully concealed, Lady Dudley had
just discovered, and she enjoyed by anticipation the pleasure she should
have in launching some terrible epigram against Vandenesse.

"Heavens! I have just invited him to my house!" cried Madame d'Espard.

"Didn't I receive him at my ball?" replied Lady Dudley. "Some pleasures,
my dear love, are costly."

The news of the mutual attachment between Raoul and Madame de Vandenesse
circulated in the world after this, but not without exciting denials and
incredulity. The countess, however, was defended by her friends, Lady
Dudley, and Mesdames d'Espard and de Manerville, with an unnecessary
warmth that gave a certain color to the calumny.

On the following Wednesday evening Raoul went to Madame d'Espard's,
and was able to exchange a few sentences with Marie, more expressive by
their tones than their ideas. In the midst of the elegant assembly both
found pleasure in those enjoyable sensations given by the voice, the
gestures, the attitude of one beloved. The soul then fastens upon
absolute nothings. No longer do ideas or even language speak, but
things; and these so loudly, that often a man lets another pay the small
attentions--bring a cup of tea, or the sugar to sweeten it--demanded by
the woman he loves, fearful of betraying his emotion to eyes that seem
to see nothing and yet see all. Raoul, however, a man indifferent to
the eyes of the world, betrayed his passion in his speech and was
brilliantly witty. The company listened to the roar of a discourse
inspired by the restraint put upon him; restraint being that which
artists cannot endure. This Rolandic fury, this wit which slashed down
all things, using epigram as its weapon, intoxicated Marie and amused
the circle around them, as the sight of a bull goad