The remainder of the sentence died unuttered upon his lips. His face became crimson, and the cigar he was holding slipped from his fingers. He had just perceived Mademoiselle Marguerite, and his consternation was so apparent that Madame de Fondege could not fail to remark it; however, she attributed it to the girl’s remarkable beauty. “This is Mademoiselle de Chalusse, my dear baron,” said she, “the daughter of the noble and esteemed friend whom we so bitterly lament.” Ah! it was not necessary to tell the baron who this young girl was; he knew it only too well. He was not overcome for long; a thought of vengeance speedily flashed through his mind. It seemed to him that Providence itself offered him the means of putting an end to an intolerable situation. Regaining his self-control by a powerful effort, he preceded Madame de Fondege through the magnificent apartments of the mansion, lightly saying: “My wife is in her boudoir. She will be delighted to see you. But first of all, I have a good secret to confide to you. So let me take this young lady to the baroness, and you and I can join them in a moment!” Thereupon, without waiting for any rejoinder, he took Marguerite’s arm and led her toward the end of the hall. Then opening a door, he exclaimed in a mocking voice: “Madame Trigault, allow me to present to you the daughter of the Count de Chalusse.” And adding in a whisper: “This is your mother, young girl,” he pushed the astonished Marguerite into the room, closed the door, and returned to Madame de Fondege. Paler than her white muslin wrapper, the Baroness Trigault sprang from her chair. This was the woman who, while her husband was braving death to win fortune for her, had been dazzled by the Count de Chalusse’s wealth, and who, later in life, when she was the richest of the rich, had sunk into the very depths of degradation--had stooped, indeed, to a Coralth! The baroness had once been marvellously beautiful, and even now, many murmurs of admiration greeted her when she dashed through the Champs Elysees in her magnificent equipage, attired in one of those eccentric costumes which she alone dared to wear. She was a type of the wife created by the customs of fashionable society; the woman who feels elated when her name appears in the newspapers and in the chronicles of Parisian “high life”; who has no thought of her deserted fireside, but is ever tormented by a terrible thirst for bustle and excitement; whose head is empty, and whose heart is dry--the woman who only exists for the world; and who is devoured by unappeasable covetousness, and who, at times, envies an actress’s liberty, and the notoriety of the leaders of the demi-monde; the woman who is always in quest of fresh excitement, and fails to find it; the woman who is blase, and prematurely old in mind and body, and who yet still clings despairingly to her fleeting youth.