When one is already in an ill temper, and is trying to conceal it, there is nothing more maddening than to have someone ask what the matter is; the result is that, instead of simply looking unhappy, you make a grimace; and that is probably what I did, for Armantine restrained with difficulty a longing to laugh again, while I muttered, biting my lips: "The matter, madame? Why, nothing. What do you suppose is the matter? I have never had the toothache." "Monsieur," said a tall, thin old woman, who was sitting beside Madame Sordeville, and had, I suppose, heard my last words, "put in some cotton soaked in eau de Cologne. Soak the cotton thoroughly and put it in the tooth. It's an excellent remedy, I assure you! It doesn't take away the pain at once, but, after a few days, you suffer much less." "But, madame," I said to the old lady who insisted upon my having the toothache, "I have not complained, I am not in pain! I don't know why you insist that----" "Then, monsieur," she continued, paying no heed to me, "you have another remedy, bay salt. Two or three grains of it produce saliva; you spit, and take more salt, and keep on till the pain is relieved." I saw that Madame Sordeville was laughing heartily at the impatience with which I listened to the old lady, who continued: "Above all things, monsieur, don't have them extracted! Oh! keep your teeth, monsieur! keep them, by all means! You no sooner have them taken out than you regret them. I myself, monsieur, have lost fourteen, and I am in despair to-day! I feel that something is lacking. Of course, I know that one can----" I had had enough. Something more was to be lacking to that lady; to wit, myself as a listener for the entire evening. I had not come there to attend a course of lectures on dentistry. It seemed to me that Armantine was laughing at me while I was having that consultation about my teeth. She had gone to the piano, meanwhile, and the concert began. If it was to be as fine a performance as on the previous evening, the prospect was captivating. I felt inclined to find fault with everything. Now that the music was under way, it would be hard for me to talk to Armantine; she either accompanied, or turned the pages for singers and players. In short, she devoted herself to everybody, except myself. So I had encouraged myself with a false hope! She did not love me--and yet, how charming she was only three days before! Did she not let me squeeze her hand and kiss it? Did she not smile at my declaration of love? Suppose that she ostentatiously treated me coldly before the world, only to conceal more effectually the sentiments I inspired? I grasped at that idea, because it left me some hope. Moreover, if it were not so, Madame Sordeville was a downright coquette, who had been making sport of me and would do it again! I preferred to believe that she was dissembling her love; if so, she dissembled perfectly. The Baron von Brunzbrack entered the salon and came up to me: