"Well, I have it. I think that at first we can have only divorced women—with their lovers. We must begin somewhere. There are some who are very suitable, and whom the most Catholic newspapers speak of with admiration. Later, when our connections shall have become more extensive, and at the same time more select,—why, we can let the divorced people slide."
"You are right," approved Mme. Charrigaud. "For the moment, the important thing is to get the best people among those who are divorced. Say what you will, the time has come when a divorce gives a person a certain position."
"It has at least the merit of abolishing adultery," chuckled Charrigaud. "Adultery is now very old-fashioned. Nobody but friend Bourget now believes in adultery,—Christian adultery,—and in English furniture."
To which Mme. Charrigaud replied, in a tone of nervous vexation:
"How you tire me, with your maliciously wicked remarks! You will see, you will see that, because of them, we shall never be able to establish a desirable salon."
And she added:
"If you really wish to become a man of society, you must learn first either to be an imbecile or to hold your tongue."
They made, unmade, and remade a list of guests, which, after laborious combinations, was finally settled upon as follows:
The Countess Fergus, divorced, and her friend, the economist and deputy, Joseph Brigard.
The Baroness Henri Gogsthein, divorced, and her friend, the poet, Théo Crampp.