baubles, bright trimmings and pompons, tinged
plumes and flowers in full bloom, curls of blond hair,
tresses of dark hair and the glitter of diamonds. Every
one is at his fighting post, the young and the old,
beginners with beardless faces, grey-haired veterans,
naïve gulls and crafty spongers, here were social scandals, false situations, riotous vice, base covetousness, shameful barter—all the flowers of corruption which sprout—mingle, grow and thrive in the dunghill
warmth of Paris.
It was into this atmosphere charged with ennui, restlessness and heavy odors that we used thereafter to come every evening. During the day, visits to the dressmakers, the Bois, the races; in the evening, restaurants, theatres and fashionable gatherings. Wherever this special brand of society people came together, one was certain to see us; we were even made much of because of Juliette's beauty which began to be the subject of people's talk, and her dresses which called forth the envy and emulation of other women. We no longer dined at home. Our apartment served us as hardly anything more than a place to dress. When Juliette was dressing she grew harsh, even cruel. The wrinkle on her forehead cut into her skin like a scar. She uttered disjointed words, grew angry, seemed to be incensed to the point of breaking up things.
All around her the room seemed as if it had been pillaged: trunks were opened, skirts thrown on the carpet, fans taken out of their cases and scattered on the chairs, opera glasses left on the furniture; muslin gowns were lying in heaps in the corners, the floor was strewn with flowers, towels, soiled with rouge, gloves, stockings, veils were hanging on the branches of the candlesticks. And in the midst of this confusion, Celestine. agile, brazen-faced, cynical, was
