"He is one of her diners,—that is all; for he has the worst tongue that exists in the world, perfidious as a snake, never spares any one.
"But is it not a pity," continued the count, "that Madame de Pënâfiel, who has so many charming qualities, is beautiful, witty, too witty in fact, and has an enormous fortune, should manage to make herself so universally disliked? She does just what she pleases and cares for no one's opinion; so she only gets what she deserves."
"It seems to me," said I, "that a visit from such an important personage as Madame la Duchesse de X—— shows that if people detest her they take care to keep it to themselves."
"That can not be helped,—society is so indulgent," the count answered me.
"Yes, indulgent to its own pleasures," I said to him; "but there is one thing that surprises me: it is not that every one slanders Madame de Pënâfiel, who seems, though she may have her faults, to have everything else in the world to create envy; but why, for the sake of strengthening her position, she does not marry again!"
Whatever was the reason I know not, but when I had spoken in this way, M. de Cernay's face flushed up, and he looked confused as he answered me, "Why do you put such a question to me?"
"Simply because there are only two of us in this box, and so I have no one else to question."
The count perceived the foolishness of his question, but he continued:
"You must not fancy that I am as intimate with Madame de Pënâfiel as all that. But see, fat old Pommerive has left her box now, and there he is in the box of those two beautiful women who are such devoted friends,—Orestes and Pylades in petticoats. Ah, see, what can he be telling them with his ridiculous gesticulations, and his side-glances at Madame de Pënâfiel? How the ladies are laughing! Good Heavens! what a silly buffoon that man is, and at his time of life, too, it is disgusting."
By Pommerive's pantomime, I easily recognised the story about Ismaël, which he probably meant to tell every one in the house.