a solemn and somewhat alarming light. I had barely time to receive the
compliment of welcome which Madame de Malouet addressed me in a feeble but
penetrating voice. She took my arm almost at once to pass into the
dining-room, having resolved, it appears, to refuse no mark of
consideration to a pedestrian of such surprising agility.

Once at the table and in the bright light, I was not long in discovering
that my feats of the previous day had by no means been forgotten, and that
I was the center of general attention; but I stood bravely this cross-fire
of curious and ironical glances, intrenched on the one hand behind a
mountain of flowers that ornamented the center of the table, and on the
other assisted in my defensive position by the ingenious kindness of my
neighbor. Madame de Malouet is one of those rare old women whom superior
strength of mind or great purity of soul has preserved against despair at
the fatal hour of the fortieth year, and who have saved from the wreck of
their youth a single waif, itself a supreme charm, grace. Small, frail,
her face pale and withered from the effects of habitual suffering, she
justifies exactly her husband's expression: "She is a breath, a breath
that exhales intelligence and good-nature!" Not a shadow of any pretension
unbecoming her age, an exquisite care of her person without the faintest
trace of coquetry, a complete oblivion of her departed youth, a sort of
bashfulness at being old, and a touching desire, not to please, but to be
forgiven; such is my adorable marquise. She has traveled much, read much,
and knows Paris well. I roamed with her through one of those rapid
conversations in which two minds whirl and for the first time seek to
become acquainted, rambling from one pole to the other, touching lightly
upon all things, disputing gayly, and happy to agree.

Monsieur de Malouet seized the opportunity of the removal of the colossal
dish that separated us, to ascertain the condition of my relations with