"Is Auguste in, Monsieur Bertrand?" inquired a young woman of twenty-four, slender and graceful, with fine brown eyes, very black hair, pale complexion, white, even teeth, and a somewhat fatigued expression; a face, be it said, which was enlivened and made most attractive by a mischievous smile. This young woman was a certain Virginie, of whom mention was made in the cabriolet on the way to Monsieur Destival's; she had just rung the bell at the door of Auguste's apartment, although it was only eight o'clock in the morning. "Monsieur Dalville has gone out," replied Bertrand, with a very slight nod to Mademoiselle Virginie, which did not deter her from entering the apartment. "That's impossible, Bertrand; you say that because there's somebody here, I suppose, and those are your orders. We know all about that. But I must see him; I have something very important to say to him. Really, my little Bertrand, I'm not joking." "I give you my word, mademoiselle, that Monsieur Dalville has gone out; or, rather, that he hasn't come in. He went to a grand ball last night, and it seems to have lasted a long while." "Great heaven! what actions! Why, it's shocking. That young man is destroying himself. Bertrand, you don't keep a sharp enough lookout over him; it isn't right. You ought to preach at him." "In the first place, mademoiselle, Monsieur Dalville's the master; in the second place, when I try to talk reason with him, he refuses to listen to me, or sends me to the devil." "That's very wrong! Ah! if I were only his mother or sister, you'd see how good I'd make him! I'm going to wait for him, Bertrand, for he must come in soon. Still at a ball at eight in the morning! Oh! I don't take any stock in that yarn." Mademoiselle Virginie, who was perfectly familiar with the apartment, opened a door leading to a small salon in which she installed herself, placing her hat on one chair, her shawl on another, and throwing herself on a couch. Bertrand quietly followed her, and as if accustomed to such performances from her, continued to eat the bread and cheese which he had in his hand when she rang the bell. "I certainly do not care for Monsieur Auguste any more," said Virginie, after a moment; "I must be a confounded fool to care for a man who has thirty-six mistresses; hasn't he, Bertrand?" "Oh! mademoiselle, I can't say----" "Yes, yes, he has thirty-six! I don't say all at once; he would have to be a northern Hercules. And yet--if it could be--It isn't worth while; one man's no better than another. I know them so well! Don't you think I'm right, Bertrand?" "Oh! as for that, there have been men who--the great Turenne, for instance."