The poet caught a glance of a man of middle height attired in a smart-fitting frock-coat. The man might have been fifty-five or forty-five--in reality he was fifty-six--so difficult was it to read his age from his impenetrable features. His moustache was still fair, and though the Baron had managed to escape baldness, that plague common to all Parisians, the colour of his hair, a decided grey, showed that he made no attempt to hide his years. His face was a little too full-blooded to be strictly in keeping with the rest of his appearance. His searching gaze rested upon René with that air of profound indifference which diplomatists by profession are so prone to affect, and which seems to say to the man so regarded, 'If I chose to know you, I should know you--but I do not choose to.' Was this really the meaning of the look that rested on him, or was René merely put out by the interruption to his charming _tête-à-tête?_ Be that as it might, the poet felt an immediate and profound antipathy towards the Baron, who, on hearing his name, had bowed without uttering a word to show whether he knew him or not. But what did that matter to René, since Madame Moraines had still managed to say with a smile as she gave him her hand: 'Thanks for your kind visit. I am so glad that you found me at home.' Glad! And what word should he use--he who, in an almost maudlin state of intoxication, felt, as he left the house in which this delightful creature lived, that before that day and that hour he had never really loved! CHAPTER VIII THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE 'It's Madame Komof's little poet,' said Suzanne, as soon as the door had closed upon René. The tone in which she replied to the Baron's mute interrogation indicated the familiar footing upon which Desforges stood in this house. Then with that girlish smile she could so well assume--one of those smiles in which the most distrustful men will always believe, because they have seen their sisters smile like that--she went on, 'Oh! I forgot--you wouldn't go last night. I looked so nice--you would have been proud of me. I had my hair done just as you like it. I expected to see you come in later on. This young man, who is the author of the play, was introduced to me, and the poor fellow just called to leave his card. He didn't know my hours, and came straight up. You have done him a great service in giving him an opportunity to escape. He had stayed so long that he was afraid to go.'