These were a few of the snatches of conversation that reached the author's sensitive ears as he bowed and blushed under the weight of the compliments showered upon him by a woman who had carried him away from Madame Komof almost by force. She was a long, lean creature of about fifty, the widow of a M. de Sermoises, who, since his death, had been promoted to 'my poor Sermoises,' after having been, while alive, the laughing-stock of the clubs on account of his fair partner's behaviour. The lady, as she grew older, had transferred her attention from men to literature, but to literature of a serious and even devotional kind. She had heard from the Comtesse in a vague sort of way that the author of the 'Sigisbée' was the nephew of a priest, and the air of romance that pervaded the little play gave her reason to think that the young writer had nothing in common with the literature of the day, the tendencies of which she held in virtuous execration. Turning to René with the exaggerated tone of pomposity adopted by her in giving utterance to her poor, prudish ideas--a judge passing sentence of death could scarcely be more severe--she said: 'Ah, monsieur! what poetry! What divine grace! It is Watteau on paper. And what sentiment! This piece is epoch-making, sir--yes, epoch-making. We women are avenged by you upon those self-styled analysts who seem to write their books with a scalpel in a house of ill-fame.' 'Madame,' stammered the young man, taken off his feet by this astonishing phraseology. 'You will come and see me, won't you?' she continued. 'I am at home on Wednesdays from five to seven. I think you will prefer the people I receive in my house to those you have met here to-night; the dear Comtesse is a foreigner, you know. Some of the members of the _Institut_ do me the honour of consulting me about their works. I have written a few poems myself. Oh! quite unpretentious things--lines to the memory of poor Monsieur de Sermoises--a small collection that I have called "Lilies from the Grave." You must give me your candid opinion upon them. Madame Hurault--Monsieur Vincy,' she added, presenting the writer to a woman of about forty, whose face and figure were still elegant in outline. 'Charming, wasn't it? Watteau on paper!' 'You must be very fond of Alfred de Musset, sir, remarked this lady. She was the wife of a Society man who, under the pseudonym of Florac, had written several plays that had fallen flat in spite of the untiring energy of Madame Hurault, who, for the past sixteen years, had not given a single dinner at which some critic, some manager, or some person connected with some critic or manager had not been present. 'Who is not fond of him at my age?' replied the young man.