Except by this voluble young gentleman, very little had been said. People _do_ say very little when they mean a great deal. It seemed to George, mademoiselle had offered no more pertinent remark than that “She had made a long journey, and was going to the Hôtel Montmirail _to stop_.” Whilst Cerise—well, I have no doubt Cerise could have repeated every word of their conversation, yet she did nothing of the kind neither to Célandine then, nor to mamma afterwards; though by the time she reached home her eyes were quite dry, and no wonder, considering the fire in her cheeks. Altogether, the interview was certainly provocative of silence. Neither Captain George nor Beaudésir uttered a syllable during the remainder of their walk. Only on the threshold of the tailor’s shop in the _Rue des Quatres Fripons_ the latter awoke from a deep fit of musing, and asked, very respectfully— “My captain, do you think I should have got the best of it this morning if we had taken the buttons off the foils?” CHAPTER X THE BOUDOIR OF MADAME There was plenty of room in the Hôtel Montmirail when it was opened at night for Madame’s distinguished receptions. Its screen of lights in front, its long rows of windows, shedding lustrous radiance on the ground and second floors, caused it to resemble, from outside, the enchanted palace of the White Cat, in that well-known fairy tale which has delighted childhood for so many generations. Within, room after room stretched away in long perspective, one after another, more polished, more decorated, more shining, each than its predecessor. The waiting-room, the gallery, the reception-room, the dining-hall, the two withdrawing-rooms, all with floors inlaid by the most elaborate and slippery of wood-work, all heavy with crimson velvet and massive gilding in the worst possible taste, all adorned by mythological pictures, bright of colour, cold of tone, and scant of drapery, led the oppressed and dazzled visitor to Madame’s bed-chamber, thrown open like every other apartment on the floor for _his_ or _her_ admiration. Here the eye reposed at last, on flowers, satin, ivory, mirrors, crystal, china—everything most suggestive of the presence of beauty, its influence and the atmosphere that seems to surround it in its home. The bed, indeed, with lofty canopy, surmounted by ciphers and coronets, was almost solemn in its magnificence; but the bath of Madame, her wardrobe, above all, her toilet-table, modified with their graceful, glittering elegance the oppressive grandeur of this important article in a sleeping-apartment. At each of the four corners strips of looking-glass reached from ceiling to floor, while opposite the bed the first object on which Madame’s eyes rested in waking was a picture that conveyed much delicate and appropriate flattery to herself.