The cosmopolitan lady was well worthy of admiration, in that, although acquainted with every grade of society under the sun, she avoided making a hopeless muddle of them all. Her brain was a directory of all the drawing-rooms of all the capitals of Europe, and she was not wanting in a certain worldly judgment; her kindness of heart, too, was universal. If she had mentioned Raoul Marcien, it was in all innocence. She was innocence personified, and knew nothing of evil. She was a good wife and a good mother, whose home was a sleeping-car or a _wagon-lit_, yet a domesticated woman for all that. Under the corsage of jet and steel that glittered as she moved with a sound as of hail, she wore coarse grey cotton stays. Even her lady’s-maids never questioned her virtue. “My dear, my dear, of course you know that M. Raoul Marcien has fought a duel with M. Isidore Mayer?” And in a voice that made one think of international bureaux and tourist inquiry offices, she related the story which Madame de Bonmont knew by heart. She told how M. Isidore Mayer, a Jew, both well known and highly respected in the financial world, went into a café in the Boulevard des Capucines, sat down at a table and asked for the Army List. Having a son in the Army, he wished to make sure of the names of the officers in his regiment. Just as he was about to take the book from a waiter M. Raoul Marcien strode up, and said: “Monsieur, I forbid you to lay a hand on that book. It is sacred to the French Army!” “Why?” asked M. Isidore Mayer. “Because you are of the same religion as the traitor!” M. Isidore Mayer shrugged his shoulders, upon which M. Raoul Marcien struck him full in the face. An encounter was arranged, and two shots fired without effect. “My dear, my dear, do you understand why he did it? I must say I do not.” Madame de Bonmont did not reply, and her silence was prolonged by that of M. de Terremondre and Baron Wallstein. “I believe,” said Madame de Bonmont, listening intently to the distant sounds of horses’ hoofs and the rumble of wheels, “that Ernest is coming.” At this point a servant came in with the newspapers. M. de Terremondre took one of them and glanced casually at it. “Still the Affair!” he murmured. “More professors protesting! Why will they insist on meddling with what does not concern them? It is only right that the Army should settle its own affairs, as it always has done. Moreover, it seems to me that when seven officers----” “Of course,” replied the Abbé, “when seven officers have given judgment, I will even go so far as to say that it is unseemly to raise any doubts as to their decision. It is highly indecorous and incongruous!” “Are you speaking of the Affair?” asked Madame de Bonmont. “Well, I can assure you that Dreyfus is guilty. I have it from an authentic source.” She blushed as she spoke, for it was Raoul to whom she had referred. Ernest entered the drawing-room, sulky and morose. “Good evening, mother! Good evening, M. l’Abbé!”