“The foreign invasion. Go and make love to her. She is as contagious as the whooping cough with you men.” “Indeed!” “Oh, don’t boast. You will go the way of all the others. She makes the necessary concessions.” A call for silence interrupted us. Mme. de H--, with a queenly gesture, enlarged the circle about her; then, with an apparent inward search for inspiration, began her recitation. I am not expert enough in poetry to decide on the merit of her poem; besides, too many conflicting impressions affected my judgment. In her verses deified nature took human shape, the better to offer herself to our comprehension. Once more the Bacchantes, after having killed Orpheus, substituted for his sacred rhythms their wild fanatic dances and disorderly rounds. In the tone of her warm, flexible, and sonorous voice and the harmonious gestures with which she accompanied her poem, in the whole dashing movement of her lithe body, which appeared to be burning with earnestness, there was a certain sensual appeal which disturbed one’s nerves. It was the return to primitive instincts, to the cult of force and desire. Yet no one, except Raymonde, who preserved her calm in the midst of the general emotion, thought of being surprised at hearing such ideas exploited in the most refined salon in Paris by a woman whose face was rouged and whose youth was already a thing of the past. Mme. de Saunois had evidently known what was coming. As for me, I was eager to be presented to Mme. de H--, the beautiful Nacha she was familiarly called by those about me, like an established celebrity. She barely deigned to acknowledge my compliments by a movement of her head. The rouge and powder, at close range, did not seem to detract from her beauty. “What did I say?” whispered Mme. de Saunois, with the air of improving her prediction. For the success of another was hardly pleasing to her. Raymonde did not consent to manifest any sort of approval, although Mme. de H-- regarded her fixedly. What was the matter with them that they all wanted the approbation which she could not give? Is a single reproach, probably justified, more important than an outburst of acclamations? In the carriage in which we drove away, my wife and I exchanged only the vaguest remarks. But when we were at home and she was removing her cloak, I noticed that she was on the verge of tears. “Did you not enjoy yourself?” I asked, hypocritically. “Oh, I didn’t go for that purpose,” she answered, naively. “Why, then?” “So that you might be pleased with me. And you are not.” “Oh, yes, I am.” I could not deceive her by my weak protestations. “No, you’re not. You can’t be. And I shall never know how to please you.” I condescendingly consoled her. I promised to direct and form her. And when I questioned her (what made me do it?) about the impression which Mme. de H-- had produced on her, I received, after a moment’s hesitation, this abrupt reply: “She is indecent. Don’t you think so?”