"Ponshour, mein gut frent Rocheprune!" "Good-evening, monsieur le baron!" "Do you know if Montame Dauberny vill come to tis barty?" "I have no idea; I have not seen her since we three were together." "Ach! you haf not seen her." And the baron pressed my hand with new warmth. "So id is mit me. I haf pin often to bay mein resbects, put te lady, she haf pin always oud. Haf you pin to see her?" "No; I have left my card, nothing more." "Ach! gut, gut! you pe not in loafe mit her shtill?" "What, baron! are you still harping on that idea? How many times must I tell you that I have never made love to Madame Dauberny, that I have never thought of doing it?" "Ach! ja! ja! You pe in loafe mit anoder. I haf forgot." The baron could not understand how anybody could fail to make love to Madame Dauberny, and I could not understand how Madame Sordeville could allow everybody to make love to her; in love, each of us has his own way of looking at things. Suddenly Brunzbrack seized my arm as if he meant to tear it from its socket. I thought that he had an attack of hysteria; but, as I saw Madame Dauberny enter the salon at that moment, I understood what had caused his convulsive movement. Frédérique wore an original costume, as indeed she generally did. A black velvet gown, high in the neck, fitted closely to her figure, which seemed more than ordinarily slender; her hair was dressed with sprays of jet and black velvet bows, and that severe style gave to her face, which was unusually pale, a serious expression. I did not know whether I ought still to be angry with her; I remembered the decidedly brusque way in which she had dismissed me, but in the next moment I remembered all the confidence and friendship she had shown me. While I hesitated, trying to make up my mind, Frédérique passed us, and bowed coolly enough to us both. Brunzbrack left me, to dog the steps of the woman he adored, and I continued to prowl about Armantine. We were both playing the same game. Should we have luck? Up to that time, I had seen no prospect of it. Monsieur Mondival sang several ballads; he sang them precisely as a schoolboy repeats his lessons; but as the ballads themselves were amusing, the company laughed heartily, and the singer attributed it to his own performance, whereas his only merit was his skilful choice of songs. After he had finished, the black-bearded man, who had talked a long while with Armantine, seated himself at the piano, and sang a grand aria with infinitely more assurance than voice. But assurance is a great thing in society. He was loudly applauded, and when he left the piano I was certain that Madame Sordeville complimented him. If I chose--one thing was certain, that I had a better voice than that man.