Musadieu was full of news; the ministry was about to fall, and there was a whisper of scandal about the Marquis de Rocdiane. He looked at the young girl, adding: “I will tell you about that a little later.” The Countess raised her eyes to the clock and saw that it was about to strike ten. “It is time to go to bed, my child,” she said to her daughter. Without replying, Annette folded her knitting-work, rolled up her ball of wool, kissed her mother on the cheeks, gave her hand to the two gentlemen, and departed quickly, as if she glided away without disturbing the air as she went. “Well, what is your scandal?” her mother demanded, as soon as she had gone. It appeared that rumor said that the Marquis de Rocdiane, amicably separated from his wife, who paid to him an allowance that he considered insufficient, had discovered a sure if singular means to double it. The Marquise, whom he had had watched, had been surprised _in flagrante delictu_, and was compelled to buy off, with an increased allowance, the legal proceedings instituted by the police commissioner. The Countess listened with curious gaze, her idle hands holding the interrupted needle-work on her knee. Bertin, who was still more exasperated by Musadieu's presence since Annette had gone, was incensed at this recital, and declared, with the indignation of one who had known of the scandal but did not wish to speak of it to anyone, that the story was an odious falsehood, one of those shameful lies which people of their world ought neither to listen to nor repeat. He appeared greatly wrought up over the matter, as he stood leaning against the mantelpiece and speaking with the excited manner of a man disposed to make a personal question of the subject under discussion. Rocdiane was his friend, he said; and, though he might be criticised for frivolity in certain respects, no one could justly accuse him or even suspect him of any really unworthy action. Musadieu, surprised and embarrassed, defended himself, tried to explain and to excuse himself. “Allow me to say,” he remarked at last, “that I heard this story just before I came here, in the drawing-room of the Duchesse de Mortemain.” “Who told it to you? A woman, no doubt,” said Bertin. “No, not at all; it was the Marquis de Farandal.” The painter, irritated still further, retorted: “That does not astonish me--from him!” There was a brief silence. The Countess took up her work again. Presently Olivier said in a calmer voice: “I know for a fact that that story is false.” In reality, he knew nothing whatever about it, having heard it mentioned then for the first time. Musadieu thought it wise to prepare the way for his retreat, feeling the situation rather dangerous; and he was just beginning to say that he must pay a visit at the Corbelles' that evening when the Comte de Guilleroy appeared, returning from dining in the city. Bertin sat down again, overcome, and despairing now of getting rid of the husband.