"No, madame; you are always welcome. And mademoiselle here will take advantage of the opportunity to express her regret for the unseemly words she used to you the other day." "Yes, madame," said Rosette, walking up to Madame Dauberny. "I was wrong; I'm hot-headed; but turn your hand over, and I forget all about it. Are you still angry with me?" "Not in the least, mademoiselle," replied Frédérique, trying to smile; "I assure you that I had forgotten it entirely. But I trust that I shall not arouse your jealousy again." "Oh! no, madame! Charles has told me that he never loved you, and that's all I ask." Frédérique bit her lips. I, for my part, was conscious of a sensation that I cannot describe. I would gladly have horsewhipped Rosette, I believe, if it had been possible. Women have a way of adjusting things that often produces the contrary effect. "Madame is acquainted with my sentiments, mademoiselle," I stammered, awkwardly enough; "she appreciates them----" "Enough, my friend!" interposed Frédérique; "sentiments are to be proved, not put in words. But, mon Dieu! how sweet your room smells! There's an odor of--of rose; yes, it's surely rose;--is it not, mademoiselle?" "Yes, madame," said Rosette; "that smell has been here ever since monsieur le docteur came in.--Do you bathe in essence of rose, monsieur?" Balloquet, who was walking about the room playing the dandy, passed his hand through his hair as he replied: "Not exactly, mademoiselle; but, in truth, I am very fond of the odor of rose; I sometimes perfume my linen with an essence that I get from Constantinople." "Well, frankly, monsieur, you use too much of it; you smell too strong! I wouldn't like to eat a truffled turkey with you." "Why not, mademoiselle?" "Because I should smell nothing but rose, instead of the odor of truffles; and a truffled turkey _à la rose_ wouldn't be good, I know." "I think that I have had the pleasure of meeting madame before," said Balloquet, saluting Frédérique. "Yes, monsieur; on a certain day, or rather night, when my presence was useful to both of you gentlemen." "Ah, yes! the two wedding parties, wasn't it, madame?" "Yes, monsieur; I only looked in at yours, but it seemed to be very lively." "It was, indeed, madame; that was the Bocal wedding; it was very hot there!" "The Bocal wedding!" cried Rosette. "Why, I know Bocal; he's a distiller on Rue Montmartre, and his daughter married Monsieur Pamphile Girie, dealer in sponges." "That's the man; do you know him?" "Oh, yes! that is to say, I know Freluchon; it's through him that I know all that." "Freluchon!" said I; "it seems to me that I've heard that name."