“No, no, everything is quite _bourgeois_. It is necessary for a person to have some taste. You wouldn’t allow me to select the things—” “Your taste, forsooth! just talk about your taste!” she retorted, flushing crimson and feeling quite angry. “You have been seen with a lady—” “What lady?” he asked, surprised by the violence of the attack. “A fine choice, indeed! I compliment you on it. A girl whom the whole of Paris knows—” She suddenly paused, remembering Pauline’s presence. “Pauline,” she said, “go into the garden for a minute.” “Oh no,” retorted the girl indignantly. “It’s so tiresome; I’m always being sent out of the way.” “Go into the garden,” repeated Juliette, with increased severity in her tone. The girl stalked off with a sullen look, but stopped all at once, to exclaim: “Well, then, be quick over your talk!” As soon as she was gone, Madame Deberle returned to the charge. “How can you, a gentleman, show yourself in public with that actress Florence? She is at least forty. She is ugly enough to frighten one, and all the gentlemen in the stalls thee and thou her on first nights.” “Have you finished?” called out Pauline, who was strolling sulkily under the trees. “I’m not amusing myself here, you know.” Malignon, however, defended himself. He had no knowledge of this girl Florence; he had never in his life spoken a word to her. They had possibly seen him with a lady: he was sometimes in the company of the wife of a friend of his. Besides, who had seen him? He wanted proofs, witnesses. “Pauline,” hastily asked Madame Deberle, raising her voice, “did you not meet him with Florence?” “Yes, certainly,” replied her sister. “I met them on the boulevards opposite Bignon’s.” Thereupon, glorying in her victory over Malignon, whose face wore an embarrassed smile, Madame Deberle called out: “You can come back, Pauline; I have finished.” Malignon, who had a box at the Folies-Dramatiques for the following night, now gallantly placed it at Madame Deberle’s service, apparently not feeling the slightest ill-will towards her; moreover, they were always quarreling. Pauline wished to know if she might go to see the play that was running, and as Malignon laughed and shook his head, she declared it was very silly; authors ought to write plays fit for girls to see. She was only allowed such entertainments as _La Dame Blanche_ and the classic drama could offer. Meantime, the ladies had ceased watching the children, and all at once Lucien began to raise terrible shrieks. “What have you done to him, Jeanne?” asked Hélène. “I have done nothing, mamma,” answered the little girl. “He has thrown himself on the ground.”