“Monsieur le Marquis de Grandvilain, son of a man who honored me by calling me his friend.” Madame de Noirmont, recognizing the young man who had been her prisoner, repressed a gesture of surprise, bowed coldly to Chérubin, and seemed to hesitate to look at him, as if she dreaded to see Monfréville with him again. Little Ernestine bit her lips to keep from laughing, when she heard her father give the name of Grandvilain to the young man whom he presented. At last Chérubin found himself at liberty once more, and returned to Monfréville, who said to him: “You have been introduced to Madame de Noirmont?” “Yes, my friend.” “What did she say to you?” “Nothing; indeed her greeting was decidedly cold.” “Shall you go to her house?” “Faith, I have no inclination to do so; it seems to me that it must be a horribly dull place. That Monsieur de Noirmont has a stiff sort of courtesy that turns one cold. After all, I am not obliged to visit all my father’s friends; they are hardly of my age.” “You must leave your card at his door, that will be enough; I think with you that it will be as well for you not to go to that house. But Madame Célival is looking for you, she was asking just now what had become of you; I think that you have made a conquest of her.” “Really! Oh! if that were true!” “Look, there she is yonder. Go and say something to her.” “What shall I say?” “Whatever you choose; she will help you to keep up the conversation. Don’t be bashful, my dear fellow; that isn’t the way to get ahead in the world.” Chérubin made an effort to overcome his diffidence, and resolved to join Madame Célival; she, when she saw him coming toward her, bestowed a charming smile on him and at once motioned him to a seat by her side. Encouraged by this greeting, Chérubin took his place beside the lovely brunette, faltering some words which it was impossible to hear, but to which Madame Célival replied as if she had heard them. A clever woman always finds a way, when she chooses, to impart assurance to the most bashful man, by taking upon herself substantially the whole burden of the conversation. Chérubin gradually felt bolder, better pleased with himself; he had almost reached the point of being entirely at ease with his companion, when the inevitable Trichet planted himself in front of them and exclaimed: “I don’t know what you are talking about, and yet, I’ll wager that I can guess.” Madame Célival, who appeared to be not at all pleased that Monsieur Trichet had interposed in her conversation with Chérubin, answered the old bachelor: “You always try to guess what people are saying, but in this case you are quite likely to be mistaken. Tell me, what was monsieur saying to me?” “That you are bewitching, adorable; for no man can say anything else to you.” Madame Célival smiled, with a less irritated air, while Chérubin, blushing to the whites of his eyes, exclaimed: “Why no, I didn’t tell madame that!”