“Achille,” murmured Madame Campardon, “that berth, at the Hédouins’—” “Why, of course! I was forgetting,” exclaimed the architect. “My dear fellow, a place of first clerk at a large linen-draper’s. I know some one there who has said a word for you. You are expected. It is not yet four o’clock; shall I introduce you now?” Octave hesitated, anxious about the bow of his necktie, flurried by his mania for being neatly dressed. However, he decided to go, when Madame Campardon assured him that he looked very well. With a languid movement, she offered her forehead to her husband, who kissed her with a great show of tenderness, repeating: “Good-bye, my darling—good-bye, my pet.” “Do not forget that we dine at seven,” said she, accompanying them across the drawing-room, where they had left their hats. Angèle followed them without the slightest grace. But her music-master was waiting for her, and she at once commenced to strum on the instrument with her bony fingers. Octave, who was lingering in the ante-room, repeating his thanks, was unable to make himself heard. And, as he went downstairs, the sound of the piano seemed to follow him: in the midst of the warm silence other pianos—from Madame Juzeur’s, the Vabres’, and Duveyriers’—were answering, playing on eaeh floor other airs, whieh issued, distantly and religiously, from the calm solemnity of the doors. On reaching the street, Campardon turned into the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. He remained silent, with the absorbed air of a man seeking for an opportunity to broach a subject. “Do you remember Mademoiselle Gasparine?” asked he, at length. “She is first lady assistant at the Hédouins’. You will see her.” Octave thought this a good time for satisfying his curiosity. “Ah!” said he. “Does she live with you?” “No! no!” exelaimed the architect, hastily, and as though feeling hurt at the bare idea. Then, as the young man appeared surprised at his vehemence, he gently continued, speaking in an embarrassed way: “No; she and my wife no longer see each other. You know, in families— Well, I met her, and I could not refuse to shake hands, could I? more especially as she is not very well off, poor girl. So that, now, they have news of each other through me. In these old quarrels, one must leave the task of healing the wounds to time.” Octave was about to question him plainly on the subject of his marriage, when the architect suddenly put an end to the conversation by saying: “Here we are!” It was a large linen-drapers, opening on to the narrow triangle of the Place Gaillon, at the corner of the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin and the Rue de la Michodière. Across two windows immediately above the shop was a signboard, with the words, “The Ladies’ Paradise, founded in 1822,” in faded gilt letters, whilst on the shop windows was inscribed, in red, the name of the firm, “Deleuze, Hédouin, & Co.”