Comtesse de Martelle-Simieuse. The name would sound well, I thought, and I repeated it several times to convince myself. I paid no attention whatever to Mozart. At first I scarcely realized that the musicians were playing Mozart--it might have been Wagner. All that I knew was that the musicians were playing a melody which seemed to fit in with the words: "Madame la Comtesse de Martelle-Simieuse." After all a name _is_ a matter of great importance, and particularly a name which goes well with a title. He is titled as well as a member of the "Jockey." _He_ must be titled. I wouldn't become plain "Madame"--no, not for a fabulous fortune. Comtesse de Martelle-Simieuse. Yes, certainly, that sounded very well. When the quartette was over the conversation was renewed. Papa turned toward mama, so did I. As soon as I reached her, she said, excitedly: "The affair is marching splendidly. He has asked to be introduced to you, and papa noticed that his voice trembled--didn't it?" "Yes," replied papa, "his voice trembled." "Your papa is going to bring him up to introduce him. If you are not satisfied with him, don't stay at my side. If you are satisfied, stay." "Of course I shall stay, mama; but it must be understood that I shall have due time for reflection afterward. You have promised not to hurry me." "You will be quite free. But don't forget that it is a chance in a hundred thousand. If you only knew his relatives, and how well they are married. His mother was a Précigny-Laroche. Think of that! A P--" "Yes, yes. I see." "There is no better blood than that of the Précigny-Laroches." "Keep calm, mama. Don't get so excited. People are looking at you." Then papa fetched him, and we had a nice chat in the interval. It was evident that he was affected. He had had courage to stare at me from a distance, but close at hand he daren't look at me. I had to lead the conversation, and I managed in ten minutes, while chatting apparently about the most trivial topics, to learn all that was absolutely necessary that I should know before letting things go farther. He loves Paris--so do I. He detests the country--so do I. He thinks Trouville is very amusing--so do I. He doesn't like shooting--nor do I. On the other hand, he is passionately fond of horses and hunting--just as I am. It is well that we agree on that point. How many times have I said to myself, "My husband will have a hunting-seat." He has one. He rents a forest which is only ten leagues from Paris. You leave Paris at half-past eight in the morning from the Gare du Nord--the most convenient of stations--and at half-past ten you are on horseback. And unless the hunt is a very long one, you are back in Paris in the evening for the theatre or a ball.