late, her eyes were everywhere; she set an excellent table; she
employed admirable servants; and if her prices were a bit stiff, she
gave you your money's worth, and there were no 'surprises.' It was
comfortable and quiet; the street was bright; the neighbourhood
convenient. You could dine in the common salle-à-manger if you liked,
or in your private sitting-room. And you never saw your landlady
except for purposes of business. She lived apart, in the entresol,
alone with Camille and her body-servant Jeanne. There was the 'home'
she had set out to make.

Meanwhile another sort of success was steadily thrusting itself upon
her--she certainly never went out of her way to seek it; she was much
too busy to do that. Such of her old friends as remained in Paris came
frequently to see her, and new friends gathered round her. She was
beautiful, she was intelligent, responsive, entertaining. In her
salon, on a Friday evening, you would meet half the lions that were at
large in the town--authors, painters, actors, actresses, deputies,
even an occasional Cabinet minister. Red ribbons and red rosettes
shone from every corner of the room. She had become one of the
oligarchs of _la haute Bohème_, she had become one of the celebrities
of Paris. It would be tiresome to count the novels, poems, songs, that
were dedicated to her, the portraits of her, painted or sculptured,
that appeared at the Mirlitons or the Palais de l'Industrie.
Numberless were the _partis_ who asked her to marry them (I know one,
at least, who has returned to the charge again and again), but she
only laughed, and vowed she would never marry. I don't say that she
has never had her fancies, her experiences; but she has consistently
scoffed at marriage. At any rate, she has never affected the least
repentance for what some people would call her 'fault.' Her ideas of
right and wrong have undergone very little modification. She was