Mme. Derline, through a half-open door, saw a sombre and severe but luxurious room—an ambassador's office. On the walls the great European powers were represented by photographs—the Empress Eugénie, the Princess of Wales, a grand-duchess of Russia, and an archduchess of Austria. M. Arthur was there taking a few moments' rest, seated in a large arm-chair, with an air of lassitude and exhaustion, and with a newspaper spread out over his knees. He arose on seeing Mme. Derline enter. In a trembling voice she repeated her wish.
"Oh, madame, a ball-dress—a beautiful ball-dress—for Thursday! I couldn't make such a promise—I couldn't keep it. There are responsibilities to which I never expose myself."
He spoke slowly, gravely, as a man conscious of his high position.
"Oh, I am so disappointed. It was a particular occasion and I was told that you alone could—"
Two tears, two little tears, glittered on her eye-lashes. M. Arthur was moved. A woman, a pretty woman, crying there, before him! Never had such homage been paid to his genius.
"Well, madame, I am willing to make an attempt. A very simple dress—"
"Oh no, not simple. Very brilliant, on the contrary—everything that is most brilliant. Two of my friends are customers of yours (she named them), and I am Mme. Derline—"
"Mme. Derline! You are Mme. Derline?"
The two Mme. Derlines were followed by a glance and a smile—the glance was at the newspaper and the smile was at Mme. Derline; but it was a discreet, self-contained smile—the smile of a perfectly gallant man. This is what the glance and smile said with admirable clearness:
"Ah I you are Mme. Derline—that already celebrated Mme. Derline—who yesterday at the opera—I understand, I understand—I was reading just now in this paper—words are no longer necessary—you should have told your name at once—yes, you need me; yes, you shall have your dress; yes, I want to divide your success with you."