“You make a great mistake,” said Moronval; “Madame de Barancy is not the kind of person you imagine. Besides, to serve a friend, you should lay aside your scruples. You see that I need the countess, that she is disposed to look favorably on my Colonial Review, and you should do all that lies in your power to favor my views. Come, now, think better of it.” D’Argenton, after being properly entreated, finished by accepting the invitation. On the following Monday, therefore, Moronval and his wife left the academy under the supervision of Dr. Hirsch, and presented themselves in the Boulevard Haussmann, where the poet was to join them. Dinner was at seven; D’Argenton did not arrive until half an hour past the time. Ida was in a state of great anxiety. “Do you think he will come?” she asked; “perhaps he is ill. He looks very delicate.” At last he appeared with the air of a conquering hero, making some indifferent excuse for his lack of punctuality. His manner, however, was less disdainful than usual, for the hotel had impressed him. Its luxury, the flowers, and thick carpets; the little boudoir with its bouquets of white lilacs; the commonplace salon, like a dentist’s waiting-room, a blue ceiling and gilded mouldings, the ebony furniture, cushioned with gold color, and the balcony exposed to the dust of the boulevard,—all charmed the attaché of the Moronval Academy, and gave him a favorable impression of wealth and high life. The table equipage, the imposing effect produced by Augustin, in short, all the luxurious details of the house, appealed to his senses, and D’Argenton, without flattering the countess as openly as did Moronval; yet succeeded in doing so in a more subtile manner, by thawing under her influence to a very marked extent. He was an interminable talker, and submitted with a very bad grace to any interruption. He was arbitrary and egotistical, and rang the changes on the _I_ and the _my_ for a whole evening, without allowing any one else to speak. Unhappily, to be a good listener is a quality far above natures like that of the countess; and the dinner was characterized by some unfortunate incidents. D’Argenton was particularly fond of repeating the replies he had made to the various editors and theatrical managers who had declined his articles, and refused to print his prose or his verse. His mots on these occasions had been clever and caustic; but with Madame de Barancy he was never able to reach that point, preceded as it must necessarily be with lengthy explanations. At the critical moment Ida would invariably interrupt him,—always, to be sure, with some thought for his comfort. “A little more of this ice, M. d’Argenton, I beg of you.” “Not any, madame,” the poet would answer with a frown, and continue, “Then I said to him—” “I am afraid you do not like it,” urged the lady. “It is excellent, madame,—and I said these cruel words—”