The grating of the carriage wheels awoke her from the dream which had
lightly brushed away the night and the vision of the Arc de
Triomphe--looming into the mystery of sky and stars, its monumental
flanks sprawling across the Place de l'Étoile. She heard her name called
by Mrs. Sheldam as their coachman guided his horses through the gateway
of the Princesse de Lancovani's palace.

"Now, Ermentrude! Wake up, dear; we are there," said Mrs. Sheldam, in
her kind, drawling tones. Mr. Sheldam sighed and threw away the
unlighted cigar he had bitten during the ride along the Champs Élysées.
Whatever the evening meant for his wife and niece, he saw little
entertainment in store for himself; he did not speak French very well,
he disliked music and "tall talk"; all together he wished himself at the
Grand Hôtel, where he would be sure to meet some jolly Americans. Their
carriage had halted in front of a spacious marble stairway, lined on
either side with palms, and though it was a June night, the glass doors
were closed.

Ermentrude's heart was in her throat, not because of the splendour, to
which she was accustomed; but it was to be her first meeting with a
noble dame, whose name was historic, at whose feet the poets of the
Second Empire had prostrated themselves, passionately plucking their
lyres; the friend of Liszt, Wagner, Berlioz, of Manet, Degas, Monet; the
new school--this wonderful old woman knew them all, from Goncourt and
Flaubert to Daudet and Maupassant. Had she not, Ermentrude remembered as
she divested herself of her cloak, sent a famous romancer out of the
house because he spoke slightingly of the Pope? Had she not cut the
emperor dead when she saw him with a lady not his empress? What a night