"Wait a moment," exclaimed a laughing voice.

"I won't be seen in this state," whispered another--"Yes"--"No"--"You are
absurd, my dear, since it is an affair of art."--" Ha, ha, ha." And they
laughed and laughed again.

At last a voice cried, "Come in," and I turned the handle.

At first glance I could only make out a confused chaos, impossible to
describe, amidst which my aunt was bustling about clad in pink fleshings.
Clad, did I say?--very airily.

The furniture, the carpet, the mantel-piece were encumbered, almost
buried under a heterogeneous mass of things. Muslin petticoats, tossed
down haphazard, pieces of lace, a cardboard helmet covered with gilt
paper, open jewel-cases, bows of ribbon; curling-tongs, half hidden in
the ashes; and on every side little pots, paint-brushes, odds and ends of
all kinds. Behind two screens, which ran across the room, I could hear
whisperings, and the buzzing sound peculiar to women dressing themselves.
In one corner Silvani--the illustrious Silvani, still wearing the large
white apron he assumes when powdering his clients--was putting away his
powder-puff and turning down his sleeves with a satisfied air. I stood
petrified. What was going on at my aunt's?

She discovered my astonishment, and without turning round she said in
agitated tones:

"Ah! is it you, Ernest?" Then as if making up her mind, she broke into a
hearty burst of laughter, like all women who have good teeth, and added,
with a slightly superior air, "You see, we are having private