And, from the first words that he spoke, everybody watched Gilberte, to enjoy her amazement. Unfortunately, Simare was continuing his more or less decorous reflexions; and Gilberte, although not always catching his exact meaning, felt so uncomfortable that she did not listen to young Lartiste at all and forgot to applaud at the striking passages, an omission that was put down to her bad taste. “Mme. de la Vaudraye is furious,” said Simare. “Her son’s gone. And I expect she jolly well lectured him about making himself agreeable to you. By Jove, when you’re a mother, you have to think of your son’s future. But Guillaume making himself agreeable is a sight that was never yet seen! Besides, he looks down upon us too much to remain in the drawing-room. Just fancy, a writer like him!... Oh, I say, madame, look at the eyes Beaufrelant’s making at you! Beaufrelant is the Don Juan of Domfront. No one can resist him. They even say ... but I don’t know if I ought.... Pooh, you have a fan ... if you want to blush....” And he again leant over towards Gilberte. She rose from her seat at the first words. Mme. de la Vaudraye came running up to her: “I am sure that that scapegrace of a Simare is saying all sorts of things that he shouldn’t.” She drew her aside: “Be careful with him, my child,” she said. “I can see through his designs: he is trying to compromise you. He is head over ears in debt and hunting for a fortune.... But haven’t you seen Guillaume? Wait for me here, I’ll bring him to you.” Simare came up to Gilberte: “I must apologize to you, madame; I shocked you just now.” “No, no,” stammered Gilberte, driven to her wits’ end by this persistency, “only I thought I ought not to....” He interrupted her: “It was I who ought not. I couldn’t help it: I was talking, talking a little at random, lest I should say what I have no right to say, what lies deep down within myself, one of those involuntary sentiments....” “I am so sorry, Mme. Armand,” cried the hostess, returning. “My son was a little tired and has gone up to his room.” The musical and literary evening was over. But the resources of the la Vaudraye _salon_ did not end there. Its frequenters prided themselves on knowing how to talk. And the conversation went by rule, of course, as everything went by rule in this society which, by the almost daily repetition of the same acts, had established habits as strong as immutable laws.