"Arrange my cap, Lizida; does my hair look well?"
"Madame is pretty enough to paint."
"Well then, show the gentleman in; if by any chance it's the unknown friend who sends me bank notes!"
"Oh! he doesn't look like it, madame; or else he's well disguised."
The maid left the room, and in a moment Roncherolle was ushered into his old friend's presence.
Madame de Grangeville was seated on a causeuse, dressed in a pretty morning gown, with a charming cap on her head, beneath which great clusters of hair, curled à la neige, served as a frame to a face which unfortunately could not be arranged like the hair. The days of privation had left accursed traces which refused to disappear, despite cosmetics and inventions of the perfumer. Wrinkles are most persistent acquaintances; when they once visit us, they never go away.
Roncherolle had made himself as fine as possible; his linen was extremely white, his whole costume scrupulously neat. Unluckily that immaculate neatness could not prevent his coat's being threadbare, his overcoat shabby and of an old-fashioned cut, his trousers of a color that was no longer worn, his waistcoat very ragged on the edges, and his hat much too glossy from overmuch brushing.
Despite all this, however, the former king of fashion presented himself with his distinguished manners of long ago; but he dragged his left leg a little, leaned heavily on his cane, and on removing his hat disclosed a grizzled and almost bald head.
"Here I am, belle dame! It is I! Better late than never, eh?"
As he spoke, Roncherolle halted in front of Madame de Grangeville and scrutinized her with a peculiar expression; on her side, that lady examined closely and with an air of amazement the man before her, and tried to think where she had seen him before.