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MADAME LEVASSEUR.
The following morning I rode through the Bois de Boulogne; the weather was dark and threatening.

At the Porte Maillot I dropped the reins on my horse's back and abandoned myself to revery, revolving in my mind the words spoken by Desgenais the evening before.
Suddenly I heard my name called.

Turning my head I spied one of my inamorata's most intimate friends in an open carriage.

She bade me stop, and, holding out her hand with a friendly air, invited me to dine with her if I had no other engagement.
This woman, Madame Levasseur by name, was small, stout, and decidedly blonde; I had never liked her, and my attitude toward her had always been one of studied politeness.