The dog almost leaped at Marianne's throat while Claire, rising, threw herself on her neck.
"Ah! dear little one!—How pleased I am! What chance brings you?"
Marianne looked at the Dujarrier. She might still be called almost lovely, although she was a little painted and her eyes were swollen, and her cheeks withered; but she knew so perfectly well all the secrets for rejuvenating, the eyebrow preparation, the labial wash, that she was a walking pharmaceutical painting done on finely sculptured features. The statue, although burdened with fat, was still superb.
She listened to Marianne, smiled, frowned and, love-broker and advisory courtesan that she was, ended by saying to the "little one" that she had a devilish good chance and that she had arrived like March in Lent.
"It is true, it has purposely happened. Vanda, you know her well?"
"What! Vanda, whom that big viper Guy called the Walking Rain?"
"I do not remember—"
"Well! Vanda has gone to Russia, she left a month ago. She will be there all the winter and summer, and part of next winter. Her general requires her. He is appointed to keep an eye on the Nihilists. So she wishes to rent her house in Rue Prony. That is very natural. A charming house. Very chic. In admirable taste. You have the chance. And not dear."
"Too dear for me, who have nothing!"