“Here is my card.”
Madame Dufournelle, who always knew what was taking place in the salon, no matter where she happened to be, whispered to her husband:
“The baroness seems to be talking with Monsieur de Merval a great deal.”
“What of that? isn’t everybody here talking?”
“Yes, those who know one another.”
“Perhaps they know each other.”
“It looks to me very much that way; she just put something in his hand—something like a small piece of paper. What can it be?”
“Instead of worrying about that, go and select a part; they are just bringing the books.”
“A part. Oh! I mean to have a good one; I don’t propose that they shall make me play a supernumerary, or Monsieur Camuzard’s sweetheart—it’s so agreeable when he speaks to you; he would kill a fly on the wing! And it’s of no use to try to get away from it, for he has a mania for talking into your face.”
“What do you expect, my dear love? everybody hasn’t a perfumed breath.”