A single paragraph, and that was all. It was enough, it was too much! Mme Derline was seized with a feeling of undefinable confusion. It was a combination of fear and pleasure, of joy and trouble, of satisfied vanity and wounded modesty. Her dressing-gown was a little open; she folded it over with a sort of violence, and crossed it upon, her feet, abruptly drawn back towards the arm-chair. She had a feeling of nudity. It seemed to her that all Paris was there, in her room, and that the Prince de Nerins was in front saying to all Paris, "Look, look! She is the most beautiful woman in Paris." The Prince of Nerins! She knew the name well, for she read with keen interest in the papers all the articles entitled "_Parisian Life_," "_High Life_," "_Society Echoes_," etc.; and all the society columns signed "_Mousseline_," "_Fanfreluche_," "_Brimborion_," "_Veloutine_"; all the accounts of great marriages, great balls, of great comings out, and of great charity sales. The name of the prince often figured in these articles, and he was always quoted as supreme arbiter of Parisian elegances. And it was he who had declared--ah!--decidedly pleasure got the better of fear. Still trembling with emotion, Mme. Derline went and placed herself before a long looking-glass, an old cheval-glass from Jacob's, which never till now had reflected other than good middle-class women married to good lawyers. In that glass she looked at herself, examined herself, studied herself, long, curiously, and eagerly. Of course she knew she was pretty, but oh, the power of print! She found herself absolutely delightful. She was no longer Mme. Derline--she was the most beautiful woman in Paris! Her feet, her little feet--their bareness no longer troubled her--left the ground. She raised herself gently towards the heavens, towards the clouds, and felt herself become a goddess. But suddenly an anxiety seized her. "Edward! What would Edward say?" Edward was her husband. There had been but one man's surname in her life--her husband's. The lawyer was well loved! And almost at the same moment when she was asking herself what Edward would say, Edward abruptly opened the door. He was a little out of breath. He had run up-stairs two at a time. He was peacefully rummaging among old papers in his study on the ground-floor when one of his brother-lawyers, with forced congratulations, however, had made him read the famous article. He had soon got rid of his brother-lawyer, and he had come, much irritated, to his room. At first there was simply a torrent of words. "Why do these journalists meddle? It's an outrage! Your name--look, there is your name in this paper!" "Yes, I know, I've seen--" "Ah, you know, you have seen--and you think it quite natural!" "But, dear--" "What times do we live in? It's your fault, too." "My fault!" "Yes, your fault!" "And how?" "Your dress last night was too low, much too low. Besides, your mother told you so--" "Oh, mamma--"