t permission, without vouchsafing any
satisfaction beyond the most meagre dues. There was more than one demure
feminine hypocrite to instruct her in the art of playing such dangerous
comedies.

So the Duchess had her court, and the number of her adorers and
courtiers guaranteed her virtue. She was amiable and fascinating; she
flirted till the ball or the evening's gaiety was at an end. Then the
curtain dropped. She was cold, indifferent, self-contained again till
the next day brought its renewed sensations, superficial as before. Two
or three men were completely deceived, and fell in love in earnest.
She laughed at them, she was utterly insensible. "I am loved!" she told
herself. "He loves me!" The certainty sufficed her. It is enough for the
miser to know that his every whim might be fulfilled if he chose; so it
was with the Duchess, and perhaps she did not even go so far as to form
a wish.

One evening she chanced to be at the house of an intimate friend Mme la
Vicomtesse de Fontaine, one of the humble rivals who cordially detested
her, and went with her everywhere. In a "friendship" of this sort both
sides are on their guard, and never lay their armor aside; confidences
are ingeniously indiscreet, and not unfrequently treacherous. Mme de
Langeais had distributed her little patronizing, friendly, or freezing
bows, with the air natural to a woman who knows the worth of her smiles,
when her eyes fell upon a total stranger. Something in the man's large
gravity of aspect startled her, and, with a feeling almost like dread,
she turned to Mme de Maufrigneuse with, "Who is the newcomer, dear?"

"Someone that you have heard of, no doubt. The Marquis de Montriveau."

"Oh! is it he?"

She took up her eyeglass and submitted him to a very insolent scrutiny,
as if he had been a picture meant to receive glances, not to return
them.

"Do introduce him; he ought to be interesting."

"Nobody more tiresome and dull, dear. But he is the fashion."

M. Armand de Montriveau, at that moment all unwittingly the object of
general curiosity, better deserved attention than any of the idols that
Paris needs must set up to worship for a brief space, for the city is
vexed by periodical fits of craving, a passion for _engouement_ and sham
enthusiasm, which must be satisfied. The Marquis was the only son of
General de Montriveau, one of the _ci-devants_ who served the Republic
nobly, and fell by Joubert's side at Novi. Bonaparte had placed