The manner in which these apparently trivial words were spoken startled Paul, who, by a strong effort, recovered his self-possession; but, prepared as he was, it was with the utmost difficulty that he stifled the expression of rage and surprise that rose to his lips at the sight of the woman who entered the room. The Madame de Chantemille, the Zora of the youthful Gandelu, was there, attired in what to his eyes seemed a most dazzling costume. Rose seemed a little timid as Gandelu almost dragged her into the room. “How silly you are!” said he. “What is there to be frightened at? He is only in a rage with his flunkies for having kept us waiting.” Zora sank negligently into an easy chair, and the gorgeously attired youth addressed the all-powerful Van Klopen. “Well, have you invented a costume that will be worthy of Madame’s charms?” For a few moments Van Klopen appeared to be buried in profound meditation. “Ah,” said he, raising his hand with a grandiloquent gesture, “I have it; I can see it all in my mind’s eye.” “What a man!” murmured Gaston in deep admiration. “Listen,” resumed the tailor, his eye flashing with the fire of genius. “First, a walking costume with a polonaise and a cape _a la pensionnaire_; bodice, sleeves, and underskirt of a brilliant chestnut----” He might have continued in this strain for a long time, and Zora would not have heard a word, for she had caught sight of Paul, and in spite of all her audacity, she nearly fainted. She was so ill at ease, that young Gandelu at last perceived it; but not knowing the effect that the appearance of Paul would necessarily cause, and being also rather dull of comprehension he could not understand the reason for it. “Hold hard, Van Klopen, hold hard! the joy has been too much for her, and I will lay you ten to one that she is going into hysterics.” Mascarin saw that Paul’s temper might blaze forth at any moment, and so hastened to put an end to a scene which was as absurd as it was dangerous. “Well, Van Klopen, I will say farewell,” said he. “Good morning, madame; good morning, sir;” and taking Paul by the arm, he led him away by a private exit which did not necessitate their passing through the great reception-room. It was time for him to do so, and not until they were in the street did the wily Mascarin breathe freely. “Well, what do you say, now?” asked he. Paul’s vanity had been so deeply wounded, and the effort that he had made to restrain himself so powerful, that he could only reply by a gasp. “He felt it more than I thought he would,” said Mascarin to himself. “The fresh air will revive him.” Paul’s legs bent under him, and he staggered so that Mascarin led him into a little _café_ hard by, and ordered a glass of cognac, and in a short time Paul was himself once again.