"Have you never seen her? You shall do so in a minute. She came to beg me to advance her professionally, she wants my help. This ought to save you some money, my friend. We'll have her in! I shall tell her who you are."
"How shall I talk to her?"
"Leave it to me."
I crossed the landing, and opened the salon door. The room was littered with the illustrated journals, but she was not diverting herself with any of them—she was sitting before a copy of La Joconde, striving to reproduce on her own face the enigma of the smile: I had discovered an actress who never missed an opportunity.
"Please come here."
She followed me back, and my friend stood scowling at her.
"This gentleman is General de Lavardens," I said.
She bowed—slightly, perfectly. That bow acknowledged de Lavardens' presence, and rebuked the manner of my introduction, with all the dignity of the patricians whom she had studied in the rain.
"Mademoiselle, when my servant announced that the General was downstairs you heard the name. You did not tell me that you knew his son."
"Dame, non, monsieur!" she murmured.