In the confusion that takes place when a number of people pass from one room to another, it is very easy to approach a person to whom one has something to say. A lover never lets that opportunity escape him, when he has not been seated beside the lady of his thoughts at dinner. On this occasion it was a lady, who, as if without design, seated herself in a corner of the salon where a gentleman was already standing. The lady was the Baronne de Grangeville, and she said to Monsieur de Merval in an undertone: “Have I changed so very much, pray, that Monsieur de Merval does not recognize me?” “Pardon me, madame--I recognized you perfectly the instant that you arrived.” “In that case, why did you not speak to me?” “You have changed your name and I supposed that you did not wish to be recognized; I respected your incognito.” “If I have changed my name, you must be well aware of the--the reason; you must have learned of what--of what happened to me.” “People say so many things in society, madame, that one never knows what to believe, and in my opinion the man who believes nothing is wisest.” “Ah! monsieur, if one could foresee--could conceive what would happen!” “Why, there are some things that one can easily foresee.” The baroness cast a penetrating glance at Monsieur de Merval, then rejoined: “You are not married?” “No, madame.” “Faith, I am inclined to think that you have done as well to abstain!--Will you not do me the pleasure to come to see me?” “You do me much honor, madame; and if it will not be indiscreet----” “Oh! not in the least; I am absolutely my own mistress. We will talk of the past; that will not rejuvenate me, but it will give me pleasure. You will come, won’t you?” “I shall take advantage of your permission, madame.” “Here is my card.” Madame Dufournelle, who always knew what was taking place in the salon, no matter where she happened to be, whispered to her husband: “The baroness seems to be talking with Monsieur de Merval a great deal.” “What of that? isn’t everybody here talking?” “Yes, those who know one another.” “Perhaps they know each other.” “It looks to me very much that way; she just put something in his hand--something like a small piece of paper. What can it be?” “Instead of worrying about that, go and select a part; they are just bringing the books.” “A part. Oh! I mean to have a good one; I don’t propose that they shall make me play a supernumerary, or Monsieur Camuzard’s sweetheart--it’s so agreeable when he speaks to you; he would kill a fly on the wing! And it’s of no use to try to get away from it, for he has a mania for talking into your face.” “What do you expect, my dear love? everybody hasn’t a perfumed breath.”