It was for that reason, no doubt, that Jenkins had judged it wise to disappear for some time, leaving madame to continue to frequent the houses still open to them, to gauge and hold public opinion in respect. It was a hard task for the poor woman, who found everywhere the cool and distant welcome which she had received at the Hemerlingues. But she did not complain; thus earning her marriage, she was putting between them as a last resource the sad tie of pity and common trials. And as she knew that she was welcomed in the world on account of her talent, of the artistic distraction she lent to their private parties, she was always ready to lay on the piano her fan and long gloves, to play some fragment of her vast repertory. She worked constantly, passing her afternoons in turning over new music, choosing by preference sad and complicated harmonies, the modern music which no longer contents itself with being an art, but becomes a science, and answers better to our nerves, to our restlessness, than to sentiment. Daylight flooded the room as a maid brought a card to her mistress; “Heurteux, business agent.” The gentleman was there, he insisted on seeing madame. “You have told him the doctor is travelling?” He had been told, but it was to madame he wished to speak. “To me?” Disturbed, she examined this rough, crumpled card, this unknown name: “Heurteux.” What could it be? “Well, show him in.” Heurteux, business agent, coming from broad daylight into the semi-obscurity of the room, was blinking with an uncertain air, trying to see. She, on the other hand, saw very distinctly a stiff figure, with iron-gray whiskers and protruding jaw, one of those hangers-on of the law whom one meets round the law courts, born fifty years old, with a bitter mouth, an envious air, and a morocco portfolio under the arm. He sat down on the edge of the chair which she pointed out to him, turned his head to make sure that the servant had gone out, then opened his portfolio methodically to search for a paper. Seeing that he did not speak, she began in a tone of impatience: “I ought to warn you, sir, that my husband is absent, and that I am not acquainted with his business.” Without any astonishment, his hand in his papers, the man answered: “I know that _M. Jenkins_ is absent, madame”--he emphasized more particularly the two words “M. Jenkins”--“especially as I come on his behalf.” She looked at him frightened. “On his behalf?” “Alas! yes, madame. The doctor’s situation, as you are no doubt aware, is one, for the moment, of very great embarrassment. Unfortunate dealings on the Stock Exchange, the failure of a great financial enterprise in which his money is invested, the _OEuvre de Bethleem_ which weighs heavily on him, all these reverses coming at once have forced him to a grave resolution. He is selling his mansion, his horses, everything that he possesses, and has given me a power of attorney for that purpose.”