“There is nothing to tell you except that for some time Queen Anne, as her intimate friends call her, absolutely refused to be introduced to me. In parenthesis, I wonder if this name Anne has been selected as coquettishly heraldic? I sometimes dine at the house of Madam Éthorel, her cousin, whom she detests. I met her there, and I also pretended to avoid her. She told any one who would listen to her that I had no talent, and that my books either bored or repelled her, that being the classic method of a fashionable woman who wishes to pique a famous man by not appearing to join the throng of his admirers. Kind friends always let one know of this amiability. _La Duchesse Blue_ was produced with some success, as I have told you, and then, I don’t know how or why, there came an entire change of front. One of her beaters—she has beaters, just like a sportsman, whom she recruits from her most ardent admirers—Senneterre, whom you know well; the old blond who sometimes takes the bank here, and is a great admirer of mine. Generally we merely exchanged greetings, but instead of that he showered compliments upon me and finished up by inviting me to dine at the Club in the room reserved for fashionable ladies. That is five weeks ago. 'How are they going to make use of me?’ I thought as I went up the stairs. The first person I met in the anteroom, one of the prettiest, most elegant corners in Paris, was Madam Pierre de Bonnivet.” “She was just like little Favier,” I interposed, “a coquette and a half. Ever since I have known you your stories have always been the same: they consist of playing with the women who have the least heart, and you always win.”