One evening she chanced to be at the house of an intimate friend
Mme la Vicomtesse de Fontaine, one of the humble rivals who
cordially detested her, and went with her everywhere. In a
"friendship" of this sort both sides are on their guard, and
never lay their armor aside; confidences are ingeniously
indiscreet, and not unfrequently treacherous. Mme de Langeais
had distributed her little patronizing, friendly, or freezing
bows, with the air natural to a woman who knows the worth of her
smiles, when her eyes fell upon a total stranger. Something in
the man's large gravity of aspect startled her, and, with a
feeling almost like dread, she turned to Mme de Maufrigneuse
with, "Who is the newcomer, dear?"
"Someone that you have heard of, no doubt. The Marquis de
Montriveau."
"Oh! is it he?"
She took up her eyeglass and submitted him to a very insolent
scrutiny, as if he had been a picture meant to receive glances,
not to return them.
"Do introduce him; he ought to be interesting."
"Nobody more tiresome and dull, dear. But he is the fashion."
M. Armand de Montriveau, at that moment all unwittingly the
object of general curiosity, better deserved attention than any
of the idols that Paris needs must set up to worship for a brief
space, for the city is vexed by periodical fits of craving, a
passion for _engouement_ and sham enthusiasm, which must be
satisfied. The Marquis was the only son of General de Montriveau,
one of the _ci-devants_ who served the Republic nobly, and fell
by Joubert's side at Novi.
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