They seated themselves on a low couch, and began to discuss their respective aches and pains in friendly fashion. Whilst listening to his complaints, Madame de Vibray could not but admire his remarkable vigour, his air of superb health: his looks gave the lie to his words.

About fifty-five, Monsieur Norbert Thomery seemed to be at the height of his powers; his premature baldness was redeemed by the vivacity of his dark brown eyes, also by his long, thick moustache, probably dyed. He looked like an old soldier. He was the last of the great Thomery family who, for many generations, had been sugar refiners. His was a personality well known in Parisian Society; always first at his office or his factories, as soon as night fell he became the man of the world, frequenting fashionable drawing-rooms, theatrical first-nights, official receptions, and balls in the aristocratic circles of the faubourg Saint-Germain.

Remarkably handsome, extremely rich, Thomery had had many love affairs. Gossips had it that between him and Madame de Vibray there had existed a tender intimacy; and, for once, gossip was right. But they had been tactful, had respected the conventions whilst their irregular union had lasted. Though now a thing of the past, for Thomery had sought other loves, his passion for the Baroness had changed to a calm, strong, semi-brotherly affection; whilst Madame de Vibray retained a more lively, a more tender feeling for the man whom she had known as the most gallant of lovers.

Thomery suddenly ceased talking of his rheumatism:

“But, my dear friend, I do not see that pretty smile which is your greatest charm! Why is that?” Madame de Vibray looked sad: her beautiful eyes gazed deep into those of Thomery:

“Ah,” she murmured, “one cannot be eternally smiling; life sometimes holds painful surprises in store for us.”

“Is something worrying you?” Thomery’s tone was one of anxious sympathy.

“Yes and no,” was her evasive reply. There was a silence; then she said; “It is always the same thing! I have no hesitation in telling you that, you, my old friend: it is a money wound – happily it is not mortal.”

Thomery nodded:

“Well, I declare, it is just what I expected! My poor Mathilde, are you never going to be sensible?” The Baroness pouted: “You know quite well I am sensible... only it happens that there are moments when one is short of cash! Yesterday I asked my bankers to send me fifty thousand francs, and I have not heard a word from them!” “That is no great matter! The Barbey-Nanteuil credit cannot be shaken!”

“Oh,” cried the Baroness, “I have no fears on that score; but, as a rule, their delay in sending me what I ask for is of the briefest, yet no one has come from them today.” Thomery began scolding her gently: