Madame Gigon, instead of peering at the white lady, leaned back. “Ah, it’s you, Héloise.... Yes, I will be there on Friday. But you are leaving early.”
“No,” replied the white lady, who was a countess and possessed a fine collection of armor. “No. Others have gone before me. I am dining out in the Boulevard St. Germain.”
Madame Gigon smiled. “With your Jewish friends?”
“Yes. It is a long way.”
“They say her eldest daughter is to marry a rich American ... millions. He is called Blumenthal.”
“Oui ... a very nice gentleman and the Good God alone knows how rich.”
“Well, money is a great thing ... the foundation of everything, Héloise.”
“Yes ... Good-by ... On Friday then. And fetch Madame Shane if she cares to come.”
And the plump white lady made her way with effort up the long polished stairway to the unpretentious doorway.
Madame Gigon, holding Michou on her lap, began fondling the dog’s ears. She leaned back and listened. Most of the guests had gone. Her sharp ears constructed the scene for her. A shrill and peevish voice in the far corner betrayed Madame de Cyon. The old woman saw her, fat, with dyed black hair and a round face well made up to conceal the ravages of time. A Russian woman, married to a French diplomat ... Bonapartist of course. She translated American novels into French to amuse herself and to help keep up the household in Neuilly. Yet she was rich, for her fat pig’s hands were covered with rings and the sable of her cloak was the best.