“Oh! I can’t believe that! What! just because I was afraid of making her ill by staying with her?” “Poor Chérubin! what a child you are still!--But I’ll tell you--let us go to Madame Célival’s to-night; the little countess is usually there, and if she is, you will find out at once whether I am right.” Chérubin accepted this suggestion; he waited impatiently for the evening, for he was burning to see Madame de Valdieri again. He was convinced that Monfréville was mistaken, and he could not believe that he would be ill received because he had hurriedly left her when he discovered that perfumery was unpleasant to her. The hour to go to the reception arrived. Monfréville called for his young friend, and they went together to Madame Célival’s. The salons were already filled with people, but the young countess was not there, and Chérubin, who was on the watch for her and hoped to see her whenever the door of the salon opened, was restless and preoccupied to a degree that did not escape Madame Célival. The sprightly widow declared war on him and tried to keep him by her side; but at last Madame de Valdieri appeared with her husband. Never had the little countess been dressed with better taste, with more grace and coquetry; never had she worn a costume which set off her charms to greater advantage; one would have said that the fascinating Emma had sworn to make more conquests than ever that evening, in order to be revenged for her discomfiture during the day. All the men vied with one another in extolling the charms of the new arrival. Chérubin did not say a word; but he could not tire of gazing at Emma, and he said to himself: “And I was sitting beside her this morning--and we were alone in her boudoir--and her head was almost on my shoulder--and--Gad! I believe that Monfréville is right; I was a great fool.” Chérubin waited until the countess had received the homage which men hasten to lay at a pretty woman’s feet. When Madame de Valdieri was no longer surrounded, he seized an opportunity to go to her, and said in an almost familiar tone: “Well, madame, are you better this evening? Your indisposition had no serious results?” The little countess bestowed a contemptuous glance on Chérubin, and answered in an ironical tone: “I don’t know what you mean, monsieur!” “You don’t know what I mean? Why, this morning----” The countess rose, as if she did not choose to listen to Chérubin, and seated herself beside a lady with whom she speedily began a very lively conversation, judging from the frequent bursts of laughter with which it was interspersed. The young man was speechless with amazement. “What a tone! what an expression!” he said to himself as he took a seat in a corner. “One would think that she did not know me.”