"He is the Chevalier don Luiz de Cabrera, a relation of her husband's. During the lifetime of the marquis he lived at the residence of De Pënâfiel, and he continues to live there as a sort of chaperon for his cousin. He looks after the way the house and equipages are kept up, though she is ridiculous enough to keep an equerry, absolutely like in the days of the old régime, an old fellow that doesn't eat in the servants' hall, but has his meals served in his own room. I tell you she can't do like other people,--the foolish things she does are incredible. But," said the count, interrupting himself, "who is that lady entering her box? Ah, it is Madame la Duchesse de X----. She has gone to be polite to her, so as to be able to take some one with her to the concert to which all Paris would like to be invited, because Madame de Pënâfiel has so bewitched Rossini that he is going to play for her an unpublished morceau. Ah, who is going in her box now? Why, to be sure, it is old, fat Pommerive. The old beggar! He goes to pay his compliments in hopes of a dinner at the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, and after uttering his thousand platitudes he will go away and tell stories that he ought to be hung for." "Is he one of her friends?" I asked M. de Cernay. "He is one of her diners,--that is all; for he has the worst tongue that exists in the world, perfidious as a snake, never spares any one. "But is it not a pity," continued the count, "that Madame de Pënâfiel, who has so many charming qualities, is beautiful, witty, too witty in fact, and has an enormous fortune, should manage to make herself so universally disliked? She does just what she pleases and cares for no one's opinion; so she only gets what she deserves." "It seems to me," said I, "that a visit from such an important personage as Madame la Duchesse de X---- shows that if people detest her they take care to keep it to themselves." "That can not be helped,--society is so indulgent," the count answered me. "Yes, indulgent to its own pleasures," I said to him; "but there is one thing that surprises me: it is not that every one slanders Madame de Pënâfiel, who seems, though she may have her faults, to have everything else in the world to create envy; but why, for the sake of strengthening her position, she does not marry again!" Whatever was the reason I know not, but when I had spoken in this way, M. de Cernay's face flushed up, and he looked confused as he answered me, "Why do you put such a question to me?" "Simply because there are only two of us in this box, and so I have no one else to question." The count perceived the foolishness of his question, but he continued: