Meanwhile the gay Madame de Chésy, the pretty blonde, whose eyes were as lively as those of Andryana Bonnacorsi were deep, was smiling on the newcomer. This smile formed little dimples in her fresh, rounded face, while under the cap of otter skin, and with her light figure in a jacket of the same fur, her small hands playing with her muff, her slender feet in their varnished boots, she was one of those charming little images of frivolity toward whom the world does well to be indulgent, for their presence suffices to render gay and frivolous as themselves the most embarrassing occasions and the most ominous situations. With all that Madame Brion knew, and all that Madame de Bonnacorsi thought, and with all the feelings of the Baroness Ely and Pierre Hautefeuille, his arrival would have made the conversation by far too difficult and painful, if the light Parisienne had not continued her pretty bird-like babble:-- "You! I ought not to recognize you," she said to Pierre Hautefeuille. "For ten days," she added, turning to Madame de Carlsberg, "yes, ever since I dined beside him here the night before your departure; yes, for eight days, he has disappeared. And I did not write about it to his sister, who entrusted him to me. For she entrusted you to me, that is positive, and not to the young ladies of Nice and Monte Carlo." "But I have not been away from Cannes for a week," Pierre replied, blushing in spite of himself. Madame de Chésy's remark had pointed too plainly to the significant coincidence of his disappearance and the absence of Madame de Carlsberg. "And what were you doing only last night at the table of _trente-et-quarante_?" the young woman asked, teasingly. "If your sister knew of that; she who thinks her brother is basking prudently in the sun!" "Don't scold him," interrupted Madame Bonnacorsi. "We brought him back with us." "And you didn't finish telling us of your adventure," Madame de Carlsberg added. The innocent teasing of Madame de Chésy had displeased her, because of the embarrassment it had caused in Hautefeuille. Now that he was there, living and breathing in the little room, she, too, felt that sensation of a loved one's presence which overpowers the strongest will. Never had the young man's face appeared more noble, his expression more attractive, his lips more delicate, his movements more graceful, his whole being more worthy of love. She discerned in his attitude that mingling of respect and passion, of timidity and idolatry irresistible to women who have suffered from the brutality of the male, and who dream of a love without hate, a tenderness without jealousy, voluptuous rapture devoid of violence.