She, however, quiet and stubborn, wished this thing to be, was resolved that it should be, certain as she was that she would secure it, insolent like a creature to whom men had never yet been able to refuse anything.
That day, at three o'clock, Gerard de Quinsac, not knowing how to kill the time pending the appointment he had given Eve in the Rue Matignon, had thought of calling at Silviane's, which was in the neighbourhood.

She was an old caprice of his, and even nowadays he would sometimes linger at the little mansion if its pretty mistress felt bored.

But he had this time found her in a fury; and, reclining in one of the deep armchairs of the _salon_ where "old gold" formed the predominant colour, he was listening to her complaints.

She, standing in a white gown, white indeed from head to foot like Eve herself at the _dejeuner_, was speaking passionately, and fast convincing the young man, who, won over by so much youth and beauty, unconsciously compared her to his other flame, weary already of his coming assignation, and so mastered by supineness, both moral and physical, that he would have preferred to remain all day in the depths of that armchair.
"You hear me, Gerard!" she at last exclaimed, "I'll have nothing whatever to do with him, unless he brings me my nomination." Just then Baron Duvillard came in, and forthwith she changed to ice and received him like some sorely offended young queen who awaits an explanation; whilst he, who foresaw the storm and brought moreover disastrous tidings, forced a smile, though very ill at ease.

She was the stain, the blemish attaching to that man who was yet so sturdy and so powerful amidst the general decline of his race.