Zoé ushered in a tall old lady who wore ringlets and looked like a countess who haunts lawyers’ offices. Then she effaced herself, disappearing noiselessly with the lithe, serpentine movement wherewith she was wont to withdraw from a room on the arrival of a gentleman. However, she might have stayed. The Tricon did not even sit down. Only a brief exchange of words took place. “I have someone for you today. Do you care about it?” “Yes. How much?” “Twenty louis.” “At what o’clock?” “At three. It’s settled then?” “It’s settled.” Straightway the Tricon talked of the state of the weather. It was dry weather, pleasant for walking. She had still four or five persons to see. And she took her departure after consulting a small memorandum book. When she was once more alone Nana appeared comforted. A slight shiver agitated her shoulders, and she wrapped herself softly up again in her warm bedclothes with the lazy movements of a cat who is susceptible to cold. Little by little her eyes closed, and she lay smiling at the thought of dressing Louiset prettily on the following day, while in the slumber into which she once more sank last night’s long, feverish dream of endlessly rolling applause returned like a sustained accompaniment to music and gently soothed her lassitude. At eleven o’clock, when Zoé showed Mme Lerat into the room, Nana was still asleep. But she woke at the noise and cried out at once: “It’s you. You’ll go to Rambouillet today?” “That’s what I’ve come for,” said the aunt. “There’s a train at twenty past twelve. I’ve got time to catch it.” “No, I shall only have the money by and by,” replied the young woman, stretching herself and throwing out her bosom. “You’ll have lunch, and then we’ll see.” Zoé brought a dressing jacket. “The hairdresser’s here, madame,” she murmured. But Nana did not wish to go into the dressing room. And she herself cried out: “Come in, Francis.” A well-dressed man pushed open the door and bowed. Just at that moment Nana was getting out of bed, her bare legs in full view. But she did not hurry and stretched her hands out so as to let Zoé draw on the sleeves of the dressing jacket. Francis, on his part, was quite at his ease and without turning away waited with a sober expression on his face. “Perhaps Madame has not seen the papers. There’s a very nice article in the Figaro.” He had brought the journal. Mme Lerat put on her spectacles and read the article aloud, standing in front of the window as she did so. She had the build of a policeman, and she drew herself up to her full height, while her nostrils seemed to compress themselves whenever she uttered a gallant epithet. It was a notice by Fauchery, written just after the performance, and it consisted of a couple of very glowing columns, full of witty sarcasm about the artist and of broad admiration for the woman. “Excellent!” Francis kept repeating.