the moment it fell vacant. It was no sort of a house for bne who desired the world to recognize his success and the character of his life, but it was an excellent house in which to live quietly, even secretly. It stood isolated in the very midst of Paris.
Madame Gigon sat in a high-backed chair, her small, withered body propped among cushions, her feet resting on a footstool. Since her eyes had grown dim she used her ears as a means of watching her guests; and these, after the fashion of such organs, had become sharper and sharper with the failure of her sight.
A fat and dowdy woman dressed all in white and wearing an extravagant white veil moved up to her.
"Good-by, Madame Gigon," she said. "You come to me on Friday. Don't forget. The Prince himself will be there."
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
