“That is a reason why one should attack them all the more.” This pretty woman’s fine face expressed, as she made this commonplace observation, such detestable wickedness, and the conversation betrayed on her part such odious meanness and hatred, that my antipathy for her increased to hate, and I replied to her insolence by another— “In the world in which you live, perhaps, madam, but not in our world where there are a few decent people.” She looked at me as I launched this impertinence, which was not even clever, at her. I read in her blue eyes less anger than surprise. One of the peculiar characteristics of these coquettish jades is to esteem those who oppose them in some degree or manner. She smiled an almost amiable smile. “Molan told me that you were original,” she replied. “But you know I am somewhat original, too, and I think we should get on together.” Here was a sudden change of front in her conversation, and I was again given an exhibition of that female intelligence which in the box had enabled her to hit upon the words to please me. Now she talked to me of my travels. She herself had visited Italy. Without doubt she had there met some distinguished artist who had acted as her guide, for she enunciated ideas which contrasted strangely with the mediocrity of her previous conversation. Assuredly the ideas were not her own, but she retained them and realized that now was her chance to place them. She made in this way two or three ingenuous remarks upon Perugins and Raphael, notably upon the illogicalness of the latter, in eliminating from his Madonnas every Christian sentiment to give them too much beauty, a paganism of health irreconcilable with the mystic beyond and his dream. She had such a way of appearing to understand what she was saying, that I did not think ridiculous the admiration with which the ninny Senneterre, who had joined us, listened to her remarks. This jealous fellow had not been able to prevent himself from interrupting our _tête-à-tête_, and as Madam de Bonnivet, strange to say, did not bully him, he began to lavish his benevolence upon me. He had his plan, too, the final scene of his naïve thinking out being a Vaudeville scene that evening when I experienced for a moment a little dramatic shudder. He insisted, when I said good night, before eleven, on accompanying me, and he began to sing the praises of Queen Anne as we walked along the Champs Élysées. Then as we passed the Avenue d’Antin he asked me carelessly— “Have you ever done any pistol shooting?” “Never,” I replied. “Bonnivet is a first-rate shot,” he went on, “quite first class. Go and see his target cards some day. He has put ten shots in a space as large as a 20 franc piece; it is quite a curiosity, I can assure you.” He left me to go along the Rue François I, where he lived, with this sinister warning. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VI