CHAPTER III

Countess Sabine, as Madame Muffat de Beuville was called to distinguish her from the count’s mother who had died the year before, received every Tuesday, at her house in the Rue de Miromesnil at the corner of the Rue de Penthièvre. It was a large square building, and had been occupied by the Muffat family for more than a hundred years past. The frontage, overlooking the street, was high and dark, and as quiet and melancholy-looking as a convent, with immense shutters which were nearly always closed; at the rear, in a little damp garden, some trees had grown up in their search for sunshine, so tall and lank that their branches could be seen overtopping the roof. On this particular Tuesday evening, towards ten o’clock, there were scarcely a dozen persons assembled in the drawing-room. When she was only expecting intimate friends the countess never threw open either the parlour or dining-room. One was more comfortable and could gather round the fire and chat. The drawing-room, moreover, was very large and very high; four windows looked on to the garden, the dampness of which could be more especially felt on this showery April evening, in spite of the substantial logs burning in the fireplace. The sun never shone there. In the day-time a greenish light only very imperfectly illuminated the apartment; but at night-time, when the lamps and the chandelier were lit, it merely looked solemn, with the massive mahogany furniture in the style of the First Empire, and the hangings and chair-coverings in yellow velvet ornamented with satin-like designs. On entering the room one found oneself in an atmosphere of cold dignity, of ancient customs and of a past age, exhaling an odour of godliness. However, on the side of the fireplace, facing the arm-chair in which the count’s mother died—a square chair with stiff straight woodwork and hard cushions—the Countess Sabine was reclining in a low easy-chair, covered with crimson silk, the padding of which had the softness of eider-down. It was the only modern article of furniture in the room, the gratification of a fancy which seemed like a blasphemy amidst the surrounding austerity.

“So,” the young woman was saying, “we are to have the Shah of Persia.”

They were talking of the great personages who were coming to Paris on account of the Exhibition. Several ladies were seated in a semicircle round the fire. Madame du Joncquoy, whose brother, a diplomatist, had fulfilled a mission in the East, was giving some details respecting the Court of that potentate.

“Are you unwell, my dear?” asked Madame Chantereau, the wife of an iron-founder, seeing the countess shudder slightly and turn pale.

“Oh, no, not at all,” replied the latter, with a smile. “I felt rather cold. This room takes such a long time to get warm!” and she looked along the walls, and up to the ceiling. Her daughter, Estelle, a young girl of sixteen, skinny and insignificant-looking, got up from the stool on which she was sitting, and came and silently replaced on the top of the fire one of the logs which had rolled off. Madame de Chezelles, one of Sabine’s convent friends, but five years younger than she, exclaimed:

“Well! I should like to have a drawing-room like yours! You, at least, are able to receive. In modern houses the rooms are no bigger than boxes. If I was in your place—”

She spoke thoughtlessly, with animated gestures, explaining that she would change the hangings, the seats, everything; then she would give balls to which all Paris would long to be invited. Behind her, her husband, a judge, listened with a grave face. It was said that she deceived him, and openly, too; but every one forgave her, and received her all the same, because, so the report ran, she was mad.

“Oh, Léonide!” Countess Sabine, with her faint smile, contented herself with murmuring. A slight shrug of the shoulders completed her thought. It was not after having lived in it seventeen years that she would think of altering her drawing-room. Now, it would remain the same as her mother-in-law had wished it should be during her life-time. Then, resuming the conversation, she observed, “I have been told that we shall also have the King of Prussia and the Emperor of Russia.”

“Yes, it is announced that there will be great festivities,” said Madame du Joncquoy.

The banker Steiner, recently introduced into the house by Léonide de Chezelles, who knew every one, was conversing seated on a sofa between two windows. He was questioning a deputy,^w from whom he was cunningly trying to extract some news relative to a stock exchange affair of which he had an inkling; whilst Count Muffat, standing in front of them, was listening in silence, looking blacker than ever. Four or five young men formed another group near the door, surrounding Count Xavier de Vandeuvres, who, in a hushed voice, was relating to them some adventure, rather improper, no doubt, for they were all making great efforts to smother their laughter. All alone, in the middle of the room, a stout man, the head of a department at the Ministry of the Interior, was ponderously seated in an arm-chair, asleep with his eyes open. But one of the young men having seemed to throw doubt on Vandeuvres’s story, the latter raised his voice, and exclaimed:

“You are too sceptical, Foucarmont; you will spoil all your pleasures.”

And with a laugh he moved towards the ladies. The last of a great race, effeminate and intelligent, he was then devouring a fortune with the rage of an appetite that nothing could appease. His racing-stable, one of the most celebrated of Paris, cost him an enormous sum; his losings at the Imperial Club amounted each month to a most unpleasant number of louis; his mistresses every year, good or bad, relieved him of a farm and several acres of meadow or forest land, making quite a hole in his vast estates in Picardy.

“You do well to call others sceptical, you who believe in nothing,” said Leonide, making room for him beside her. “It is you who spoil your pleasures.”

“Exactly,” he replied. “I want others to profit by my experience.

But he was made to stop. He was scandalizing M. Venot. Then, some of the ladies moving, disclosed to view, on a sort of sofa-chair, a little man of sixty, with bad teeth and a cunning smile. He was installed there just as though he were at home, listening to every one and never uttering a word. With a gesture he notified that he was not scandalized. Vandeuvres assumed his most dignified look, and gravely added, “M. Venot knows very well that I believe that which I ought to believe.”

It was an act of religious faith. Léonide herself appeared satisfied. The young men at the end of the room no longer laughed. It was a strait-laced place, and they did not amuse themselves much there. A coldness had passed over all. In the midst of the silence arose the sound of Steiner’s snuffling voice, the deputy’s discretion having ended by putting the banker in a rage. For a few minutes Countess Sabine looked into the fire, then she renewed the conversation.

“I saw the King of Prussia last year, at Baden. He is still full of vigour for his years.”

“Count Bismarck^x will accompany him,” said Madame Du Joncquoy. “Do you know the count? I lunched with him at my brother’s, oh! a long time ago, when he was representing Prussia at Paris. I cannot understand such a man achieving the great success he has.”

“Why?” asked Madame Chantereau.

“Well! I scarcely know how to tell you. He does not please me. He has a brutish look, and is ill-mannered. Besides, for myself, I think him stupid.”

Then everyone talked about Count Bismarck. The opinions were very divided. Vandeuvres knew him, and asserted that he was a hard drinker and a good player. But, at the height of the discussion, the door opened and Hector de la Faloise appeared. Fauchery, who accompanied him, approached the countess, and bowing, said, “Madame I did not forget your gracious invitation.”

She greeted him with a smile and a kind word. The journalist,after shaking hands with the count, stood for a moment like a fish out of water, in the midst of the company of whom he only recognised Steiner. Vandeuvres, having turned round, came and greeted him; and, happy at the meeting, and seized with a desire to be communicative, Fauchery at once drew him aside, saying in a low voice:

“It’s for to-morrow; are you going?”

“Of course!”

“At midnight at her place.”

“I know, I know. I’m going with Blanche.”

He wished to escape to rejoin the ladies and give another argument in Count Bismarck’s favour. But Fauchery detained him.

“You will never guess what invitation she has asked me to deliver.”

And he slightly nodded his head in the direction of Count Muffat, who at that moment was discussing the budget with the deputy and Steiner.

“It can’t be!” said Vandeuvres, amazed, but at the same time highly amused.

“On my honour! I had to swear I would bring him. I have called partly on that account.”

They both had a quiet laugh, and then Vandeuvres, hastening to rejoin the ladies, exclaimed,

“I assure you, on the contrary, that Count Bismarck is very witty. For instance, he made one night, in my hearing, a most delightful pun—”

La Faloise, however, having overheard the few rapid words exchanged in a low voice between the two friends, looked at Fauchery, hoping for an explanation which came not. Whom were they talking of? What was going to take place the next day at midnight? He stuck to his cousin wherever he went. The latter had gone and sat down. Countess Sabine especially interested him. She had often been talked about in his presence. He knew that, married when she was only seventeen, she would then be thirty-four, and that ever since her marriage she had led a sort of cloistered existence between her husband and her mother-in-law. In society, some said she was as cold as a devotee, but others pitied her as they recalled her merry laughter, her big, sparkling eyes, in the days before she was shut up in that old house. Fauchery examined her and hesitated. One of his friends, a captain who had been recently killed in Mexico, ^y had imparted to him after dinner, on the eve of his departure, one of those brutal secrets which the most discreet men let out at certain moments. But Fauchery’s recollection of the matter was very vague; they had both dined well that evening, and he had his doubts as he watched the countess, dressed in black, with her quiet smile, in the middle of that old-fashioned drawing-room. A lamp placed behind her detached her sharp profile, that of a plump brunette, of which the lips alone, slightly thick, had a sort of imperious sensuality.

“What’s the matter with them and their Bismarck!” murmured La Faloise, who always pretended to be very much bored when in society. “It’s awfully slow here. It was a queer idea of yours to want to come!”

All at once Fauchery questioned him, “I say, the countess, has she got any lover?”

“Oh! no, my dear fellow; oh! no,” he stammered, visibly upset, and quite forgetting his off-hand style. “Wherever do you think you are?” Then he became aware that his indignation was not quite the thing for a man of the world like himself, so, leaning back on the sofa, he added, “Well! I say no; but really I’m not sure of anything. There’s a fellow over there, that Foucarmont, who’s always to be found about the place. One has seen stranger things than that, that’s certain. For myself, I don’t care a hang. Anyhow, if the countess does amuse herself in that way, she must be very cunning, for no one has ever found it out; she is never talked about.”

Then, without Fauchery taking the trouble to question him further, he related all he knew respecting the Muffats. He spoke in a very low voice in the midst of the tittle-tattle of the ladies gathered round the fire; and one would have thought, seeing them in their white ties and gloves, that they were discussing some serious matter in the most select words. Mamma Muffat, whom La Faloise had known intimately, was an insupportable old woman, always mixed up with priests. As for Muffat, the tardy son of a general, made count by Napoleon I., he naturally found himself in favour after December 2nd.^z He also was not very gay; but he was considered to be a very worthy and honest man. With that he possessed opinions belonging to another world, and had such a high idea of his post at court, of his dignities and of his virtues, that he carried his head like the holy sacrament. It was Mamma Muffat who had given him that beautiful education—confession every day, no youth, no sprees of any kind. He was most religious; he had frequent fits of faith of great violence, similar to attacks of brain fever. Then, to finish his portrait with a last detail, La Faloise whispered a word in his cousin’s ear.

“It’s not possible!” said the latter.

“On my honour, I was assured of it! He had it still when he married.”

Fauchery laughed as he glanced at the count, whose face, surrounded with whiskers and without moustache, looked squarer and harder than ever as he quoted figures and totals to Steiner, who disputed them.

“Well, he looks like one of that sort,” he murmured. “A fine present he made to his wife! Ah, poor little thing! how he must have bored her! I bet she doesn’t know anything at all!”

Just then Countess Sabine spoke to him, but he was so interested and amused with what he had been told about the count that he did not hear her. She repeated her question.

“M. Fauchery, have you not written an article on Count Bismarck? You have spoken to him, have you not?”

He rose from his seat quickly, and joined the ladies, trying to compose his features, at the same time, however, finding a reply with ease.

“Really, madame, I must at once own that I wrote that article by the aid of some of his biographies published in Germany. I have never seen Count Bismarck.”

He remained next to the countess, and whilst talking with her he continued his reflections. She did not look her age; one would have thought her twenty-eight years old at most; her eyes, which her long lashes shaded with a blue shadow, especially retained a sparkle of youth. Brought up by parents living apart, spending one month with the Marquis de Chouard and the next with the Marchioness, she married when very young, shortly after her mother’s death, incited thereto, no doubt, by her father, in whose way she was. He was a terrible man, the marquis, and strange stories were beginning to circulate about him, in spite of his great show of piety! Fauchery asked if he would have the honour of seeing him. Certainly, her father would come, though very late; he had so much work to attend to! The journalist, who thought he knew where the old man spent his evenings, preserved his gravity; but a mark he noticed on the countess’s left cheek near her mouth, surprised him greatly. Nana had the same—exactly. It was funny. On the mark were some little curly hairs, only the hairs on Nana were light, whilst those on the other were as black as jet. But, no matter, this woman hadn’t a lover.

“I always had a wish to know Queen Augusta,” said she. “I have heard that she is so good and so pious. Do you think that she will accompany the king?”

“It is said that she will not, madame,” he replied.

She had no lover—that was evident to all. It was sufficient to see her there, beside her daughter, so inert and so unnatural on her stool. The sepulchral drawing-room, with its church-like odour, told sufficiently under what an iron hand, in what a rigid existence, she passed her life. There was nothing of hers in that antiquated abode, blackened with damp. It was Muffat who domineered and who governed, with his bigoted education, his penances, and his fasts. But the sight of the little old man with bad teeth and cunning smile, whom Fauchery noticed just then in the easy-chair behind the ladies, appeared to him a more forcible argument still. He knew the fellow, Théophile Venot, an ex-attorney who had had the speciality of ecclesiastical causes. Having retired with a very handsome fortune, he now led a rather mysterious existence, was received everywhere, treated with great respect, and even slightly feared, as though he represented a great power—an occult one which, so to say, could be felt about him. Besides that, he affected great humility; he was a church-warden at the Madeleine, and had merely taken a situation as adjunct to the mayor of the ninth arrondissement to occupy his leisure, so he said. The countess was well protected, and no mistake! there was nothing to be done in that quarter.

“You are right; one is bored to death here,” said Fauchery to his cousin, when he had succeeded in escaping from the ladies. “We’ll be off.”

But Steiner, whom Count Muffat and the deputy had just left, came towards him looking furious, all in a perspiration, and grumbling in a low voice. “Confound them! they can keep their information to themselves if they want to. I shall find plenty of others who will speak.” Then, pushing the journalist into a corner, he said in a victorious tone of voice, “Well! it’s for to-morrow. I shall be there, my buck!”

“Ah!” murmured Fauchery, surprised.

“You didn’t know? Oh! I had an awful job to find her at home! Besides that, Mignon stuck to me wherever I went.”

“But they are going, the Mignons.”

“Yes; so she told me. Well, she at length received me, and invited me. At midnight precisely, after the theatre.” The banker looked beaming with delight. He winked his eye, and added, giving to each word a peculiar significance, “And you, did it come off?”

“What do you mean?” asked Fauchery, who affected not to understand. “She wished to thank me for my article, so she came to call on me.”

“Yes, yes. You are lucky, you fellows; you are rewarded. By the way, who is it who pays to-morrow?”

The journalist opened his arms, as though to declare that no one had been able to find out. Here Vandeuvres called to Steiner, who knew Count Bismarck. Madame du Joncquoy was almost convinced. She ended by saying:

“He made a bad impression on my mind; I think he looks wicked. However, I am willing to believe he has plenty of wit. That will explain his great successes.”

“No doubt,” said the banker—a Frankfort Jew, with a ghastly smile.

This time, however, La Faloise plucked up courage to question his cousin, and following him closely, whispered in his ear, “So there’s to be a supper at some woman’s to-morrow night? At whose place is it, eh? at whose place?”

Fauchery signalled to him that some one was listening; they must observe the proprieties. Again the door had opened, and an old lady entered, followed by a youth, whom the journalist recognised as the youngster fresh from college, who, on the first night of the “Blonde Venus,” had uttered the famous “Isn’t she stunning!” which was still talked about. The lady’s arrival caused quite a commotion in the drawing-room. Countess Sabine hastily rose from her chair to meet her. She took hold of her hands, and called her her dear Madame Hugon. Seeing his cousin watch this scene rather curiously, La Faloise, with the view of impressing him, explained it in a few words. Madame Hugon was a notary’s widow, and had retired to a place called Les Fondettes, an estate which had long belonged to her family, and which was situated near Orleans. She had kept up a small establishment in Paris, in a house belonging to her in the Rue de Richelieu, and was now passing a few weeks there for the purpose of arranging everything for her younger son, who was studying for the bar. She had been the Marchioness de Chouard’s great friend, and had been present at the countess’s birth. The latter had often spent months with her, up to the time of her marriage with the count, and they were still very intimate together.

“I have brought George to see you,” Madame Hugon was saying to Sabine. “I fancy you will find him grown!”

The youth, with his bright eyes and fair curls, looking like a girl dressed up as a boy, greeted the countess, not at all bashfully, and recalled to her recollection a game at battledore and shuttle-cock^aa that they had played together, two years before, at Les Fondettes.

“Is Philip not in Paris?” asked Count Muffat.

“Oh, no!” replied the old lady. “He is still with the garrison at Bourges.”

She had seated herself, and talked with pride of her elder son, a big fellow, who, after enlisting in a hasty moment, had rapidly attained the rank of lieutenant. All the ladies surrounded her with a respectful sympathy. The conversation became nicer and more agreeable; and Fauchery, seeing there that worthy Madame Hugon, with her white hair, and her maternal face lighted up with such a sweet smile, thought himself highly ridiculous for having for a moment suspected Countess Sabine. However, the big crimson silk easy-chair, in which the countess had re-seated herself, attracted his attention. He thought it looked too loud, and altogether out of place, in that smoky old drawing-room. For certain, it was not the count who had introduced such a means of gratifying a voluptuous indolence. One might have thought it a sort of experiment, the commencement of a desire and of an enjoyment. Then his thoughts went dreamily back to the past, returning, in spite of himself, to that story told one evening in a private room at a restaurant. He had sought to become acquainted with the Muffat family, prompted by a sensual curiosity; for, since his friend had been killed in Mexico, who knew what might happen? it was for him to see. There was probably nothing in it after all. The thought of it, however, disturbed and attracted him, and all the vice in his nature was awakened. The big easy-chair had a tumbled look and a curve in the back which now rather amused him.

“Well! shall we go?” asked La Faloise, with the intention of asking, when they got outside, the name of the woman who was to give the supper.

“In a little while,” replied Fauchery.

And he no longer hurried himself, but took as a pretext for staying the invitation with which he had been charged, and which it was not at all easy to deliver. The ladies were talking of a young girl who had recently become a nun. The ceremony, which was a very touching one, had affected all fashionable Paris for three days past. She was the eldest daughter of the Baroness de Fougeray, and had joined the Carmelites, having an irresistible calling to do so. Madame Chantereau, the cousin in a remote degree of the Fougerays, was relating that the baroness had been obliged to take to her bed on the following day, being so overcome by her emotion.

“I had a capital place,” said Léonide. “I thought it all very curious. ”

Madame Hugon, however, pitied the poor mother. What anguish to lose her daughter! “I have been accused of being a devotee,” said she, with simple frankness. “That does not prevent me thinking children who persist in such a suicide very cruel. ”

“Yes, it is a terrible thing,” murmured the countess, with a slight shiver, as she cuddled closer into her chair before the fire.

Then the ladies entered into a long discussion on the subject. But their voices were subdued, and only occasionally did a faint laugh interrupt the solemnity of the conversation. The two lamps on the mantlepiece, covered with rose-coloured shades, shed but a feeble light over them; and there being only three other lamps, which were placed at a distance on different pieces of furniture, the vast room was in a pleasant shadow. Steiner began to feel bored. He related to Fauchery an adventure of that little Madame de Chezelles, whom he familiarly called Léonide. A regular hussy, said he, as he lowered his voice behind the ladies’ chairs. Fauchery watched her in her dress of pale blue satin, as she sat on a corner of her chair, looking as slim and as impudent as a boy, and he ended by feeling surprised at seeing her there. They knew better how to behave themselves at Caroline Héquet’s, whose establishment had just been placed on a substantial footing by her mother. It was quite a subject for an article. What an extraordinary world was the Parisian one! The strictest drawing-rooms were becoming invaded. That silent Théophile Venot, who contented himself with smiling and showing his bad teeth, was evidently a bequest of the defunct countess, just the same as the elderly ladies, Madame Chantereau, Madame du Joncquoy, and four or five old gentlemen who remained immovable in their corners. Count Muffat brought some government officials, who affected that correctness of bearing which was the fashion of the Tuileries.^ab Amongst others, the head of the department remained seated by himself in the middle of the room, with his clean shaven face and dull-looking eyes, and so tightly buttoned up in his coat that he seemed as though he dare not move. Nearly all the young men, and some persons of lofty style, had been introduced by the Marquis de Chouard, who had kept up his connection with the legitimists, after having joined the Empire and become a member of the Council of State. There remained Léonide de Chezelles, Steiner, a most ambiguous lot, which was relieved by Madame Hugon with the serenity of an amiable old woman; and Fauchery, who still had his article in his mind, called them Countess Sabine’s set.

“On another occasion,” continued Steiner, speaking very low, “Léonide made her tenor come to Montauban. She was living at the Château de Beaurecueil, two leagues from there, and every day she came in a carriage and pair to see him at the Hotel du Lion-d’Or, where he was staying. The carriage waited at the door, and Léonide remained in the hotel for hours, whilst a crowd assembled and admired the horses.”

The conversation ceased, and a rather solemn interval succeeded. Two young men were whispering, but they soon left off, and nothing was heard but Count Muffat’s faint footsteps as he walked across the room. The lamps seemed to be burning low, the fire was going out, and a deep shadow almost hid from sight the old friends of the family, as they sat in the chairs they had occupied there for forty years past. It was as though, between a couple of sentences, the guests had felt the count’s mother return with her grand, icy cold look. Countess Sabine, however, soon resumed:

“At any rate there was a report to that effect. The young man, it seems, died, and that will explain why the poor child took the veil. It is said, also, that M. de Fougeray would never have given his consent to the marriage.”

“There are a great many other things said, too,” giddily exclaimed Léonide.

She laughed, at the same time refusing to explain herself. Sabine, affected by this gaiety, carried her handkerchief to her mouth. And this laughter, in the solemnity of the vast apartment, had a ring which struck Fauchery; it sounded like the breaking of glass. Without a doubt something was cracked there. Then the ladies all started off talking at once. Madame du Joncquoy protested; Madame Chantereau knew that a marriage had been contemplated, but that nothing further had taken place. Even the gentlemen ventured to give their views. For some minutes there was quite a confusion of opinions, in which the different elements of the room—the Bonapartists and the legitimists, mixed with the worldly sceptics—elbowed each other, and spoke at the same time. Estelle had rung for more wood for the fire, and the footman had wound up the lamps; it was quite like an awaking. Fauchery was smiling, as though perfectly at his ease.

“Why, of course! they espouse God, when they cannot marry their cousin,” said Vandeuvres between his teeth, thoroughly bored with the subject, as he went and joined Fauchery. “My boy, have you ever seen a woman beloved become a nun?” He did not wait for a reply, he had had enough of it; and in a low voice he added, “I say, how many shall we be to-morrow? There will be the Mignons, Steiner, you, Blanche, and myself. Who else?”

“Caroline, I think, Simone, Gaga for certain. One never knows exactly, you know. On such occasions, one expects about twenty and thirty turn up.”

Vandeuvres, who was looking at the ladies, turned to another subject. “She must have been very good looking, Madame du Joncquoy, fifteen years ago. That poor Estelle seems to have grown longer than ever. What a plank she’ll be to put in a bed!” But he interrupted himself, and returned to the question of the supper. “The nuisance in that sort of things is that one always meets the same women. We ought to have some new ones. Try and discover one. Wait! I have an idea! I’ll go and ask that stout man to bring the girl he was lugging about at the Variety Theatre the other evening.”

He was speaking of the head of the department, who was dozing in the middle of the room. Fauchery amused himself by watching the delicate negotiation from a distance. Vandeuvres seated himself beside the stout man, who continued to look very dignified. For a short time they both seemed to discuss, with all the seriousness it merited, the weighty question of the moment, which was what real reason a young girl could have for becoming a nun. Then the count returned, saying,

“It isn’t possible. He swears that she is virtuous. She would be sure to refuse. Yet, I would have bet that I had seen her at Laure’s.”

“What! you go to Laure’s!” murmured Fauchery with a laugh. “You venture to risk your person in such places! I thought it was only we poor devils who did that! ”

“Oh! dear boy, one must see everything.” Then they both chuckled, and their eyes sparkled as they gave each other different details about the dining place in the Rue des Martyrs, where fat Laure Piédefer, for three francs a head, provided dinner for ladies who were down in their luck. It was a dirty hole! All the little women kissed Laure on the mouth. Then, as the countess looked in their direction, having overheard a word or two, they moved away together, both very lively and highly amused. They had not noticed George Hugon standing near them, listening, and blushing so hard that from his neck to his ears he became quite red. The baby was full of a mixture of shame and rapture. Since his mother had left him alone in the drawing-room, he had hovered round about Madame de Chezelles, the only woman whom he thought at all up to anything, and yet Nana could give her a lot!

“Last night,” Madame Hugon was saying, “George took me to the theatre. Yes, to the Variety, where I had certainly not been for ten years or more. The child adores music. As for myself, it did not amuse me much, but he seemed so happy! They bring out most peculiar pieces now-a-days. I must admit, however, that I have no great taste for music.”

“What! madame, you do not care for music!” exclaimed Madame du Joncquoy, raising her eyes to heaven. “Is it possible that everybody does not like music?”

The exclamation was general. No one offered a remark in reference to the piece produced at the Variety Theatre, and of which the worthy Madame Hugon had not understood anything ; the other ladies knew about it, but would say nothing. They at once went in for sentiment, and a refined and ecstatic admiration of the great masters. Madame du Joncquoy only cared for Weber, Madame Chantereau preferred the Italians. The sound of the ladies’ voices became soft and languid; one might have thought the group gathered round the fire to be a party at church, discreetly and faintly intoning a canticle in some little chapel.

“Let’s see,” murmured Vandeuvres, leading Fauchery into the middle of the room, “we must, somehow or other, discover a new woman for to-morrow. Suppose we ask Steiner?”

“Oh! Steiner,” said the journalist, “never gets hold of a woman until all Paris has had enough of her.”

Vandeuvres, however, looked about him. “Wait,” he resumed, “I met Foucarmont with some fair charmer the other day. I will go and ask him to bring her.”

And he beckoned to Foucarmont. They rapidly exchanged a few words; but there seemed to be some difficulty, for they both cautiously picked their way over the ladies’ skirts and joined another young man, with whom they continued their conference in the recess of a window. Fauchery, left alone, decided to join the group by the fire just as Madame du Joncquoy was stating that she could never hear Weber’s music without at once seeming to see lakes, forests, and the sun rising over landscapes bathed in dew; but a hand touched his shoulder, whilst a voice said behind him,

“It’s not at all kind of you.”

“What isn’t?” he asked, turning round and recognising La Faloise.

“That supper, to-morrow night—you might at least have got me invited.”

Fauchery was just about to reply, when Vandeuvres returned and said to him, “It seems the girl has nothing to do with Foucarmont, she belongs to that other gentleman over there. She won’t be able to come. What a bore! But, all the same, I’ve hooked Foucarmont. He will try and bring Louise of the Palais-Royal Theatre.”

“M. de Vandeuvres,” asked Madame Chantereau, raising her voice, “is it not true that Wagner’s music was hissed on Sunday?”

“Oh! atrociously, madame,” he replied, advancing with his exquisite politeness. Then, as the ladies did not detain him, he moved away and continued in an undertone in the journalist’s ear, “I shall go and hook some more. All these young fellows must know some little women.”

Then he was seen, pleasantly smiling the while, to go up to the different men and talk with them in all parts of the room. He mingled with the various groups, dropped a few words here and there, and then withdrew, winking his eyes and making other signs. It was as though he was, in his easy way, giving out a watchword. His words were passed from one to another, and appointments were made; whilst the ladies’ sentimental dissertations on music drowned the agitated buzz caused by all these alluring attempts.

“No, don’t mention your Germans,” repeated Madame Chantereau. “Song is gaiety, is light. Have you heard Patti^ac in ’ll Barbiere’?”^ad

“Delicious!” murmured Léonide, who could only strum opera-bouffe airs on her piano.

Countess Sabine now rang for tea, which was served in the drawing-room when the visitors on a Tuesday were not numerous. Whilst having a small table cleared by a footman, the countess followed Count de Vandeuvres with her eyes. She preserved that vague smile which showed a little the whiteness of her teeth; and, as the count passed near her, she questioned him.

“Whatever are you plotting, M. de Vandeuvres?”

“I, madame?” he calmly replied, “I am not plotting anything.”

“Ah! You seemed to be so very busy. See, you must make yourself useful.”

She placed an album in his hands and asked him to put it on the piano. But he found means of informing Fauchery on the quiet that Tatan Néné, who had the best neck and shoulders of the season, would be there, and also Maria Blond, who had just made her first appearance at the Folies-Dramatiques Theatre. La Faloise, however, kept stopping him at almost every step, expecting an invitation. He ended by offering himself. Vandeuvres engaged him at once; only, he made him promise to bring Clarisse, and as La Faloise affected to be scrupulous, he quieted him by saying, “But I invite you! That is quite sufficient.”

Nevertheless La Faloise would very much have liked to have known the name of the woman at whose house the supper was to take place, but the countess had recalled Vandeuvres, and was questioning him as to the way tea was made in England. He was often there, attending the races in which his horses ran. According to him, only the Russians knew how to make tea; and he mentioned their recipe. Then, as though he had been thinking very much whilst speaking, he interrupted himself to ask, “By the way, and the marquis? Were we not to have seen him?”

“Why, yes; my father certainly promised,” replied the countess. “I am beginning to feel uneasy. His work must have detained him.”

Vandeuvres smiled discreetly He also seemed to have a doubt as to the nature of the work on which the Marquis de Chouard was engaged. He had thought of a charming person whom the marquis sometimes took into the country. Perhaps they might be able to get her for the supper. However, Fauchery thought the time had come for acquainting Count Muffat with the invitation he had for him. It was getting late.

“Do you seriously mean it?” asked Vandeuvres, who thought it was a joke.

“Most seriously. If I don’t ask him, she will scratch my eyes out. It’s a whim of hers, you know.”

“Then I’ll help you, my boy.”

The clock struck eleven. The countess and her daughter served the tea. As there were scarcely any but intimate friends, the cups and plates of biscuits and cake were familiarly handed round. The ladies remained in their chairs before the fire, sipping their tea, and crunching the biscuits which they held between the tips of their fingers. From music the conversation dwindled to tradesmen. There was no one like Boissier for sweets, and Catherine for ices; Madame Chantereau, however, preferred Latinville. The talk slackened, a weariness seemed to seize upon every one. Steiner had resumed his attack on the deputy, whom he blockaded in the corner of a sofa. M. Venot, whose teeth had probably been destroyed by sweetmeats, was rapidly devouring some hard cakes, making a little noise like a mouse; whilst the head of the department, his nose in his cup, never seemed to have had enough. And the countess, without the least hurry, moved from one to another, not pressing them, but standing a few seconds looking at the men in a sort of silent interrogative manner, then smiling and passing on. The heat of the fire had given quite a colour to her face, and she seemed to be the sister of her daughter, who looked so skinny and awkward beside her. As she drew near to Fauchery, who was conversing with her husband and Vandeuvres, she noticed that they left off talking. She did not stop, but, passing further on, offered George Hugon the cup of tea she was carrying.

“It is a lady who desires your company at supper,” gaily resumed the journalist, addressing Count Muffat.

The latter, whose countenance had retained its dark look all the evening, seemed greatly surprised. What lady could they mean?

“Why, Nana!” said Vandeuvres, so as to have it out at once.

The count became still more serious. He scarcely moved his eyelids, whilst a pain, like a twitch of neuralgia, passed over his face. “But I do not know the lady.” he murmured.

“Oh! come now! Why you went and called on her,” observed Vandeuvres.

“What! I called on her. Ah! yes, the other day, for the poor relief committee. I had forgotten all about it. All the same, I do not know her. I cannot accept.”

He assumed his most dignified air, to let them understand that he considered their joke in very bad taste. The place of a man of his rank was not at the table of such a woman. Vandeuvres protested: it was merely a supper given to some actresses ; talent excused everything. But without listening to him any more than to Fauchery, who began to tell him of a dinner at which a prince, the son of a queen, had sat next to a woman who used to sing at music-halls, the count gave a most decided refusal. He even, in spite of his great politeness, accompanied it with a gesture of annoyance.

George and La Faloise, standing up drinking their tea in front of each other, had overheard the few words that had been exchanged so near them. “Halloo! so it’s to be at Nana’s,” murmured La Faloise. “I might have known it!”

George said nothing, but he became very red in the face, his fair hair was all ruffled, his blue eyes were shining like candles. The vice with which he had mixed during the last few days inflamed and excited him. At last then, he was about to meet with all that he had dreamed of. “The nuisance is, I don’t know the address,” resumed La Faloise.

“Boulevard Haussmann, between the Rue de l’Arcade and the Rue Pasquier, on the third floor,” said George, all in a breath; and as the other looked at him with astonishment, he added, becoming redder still in the face, and bursting with conceit and confusion, “I am going; she invited me this morning.”

Just at this moment there was a great commotion in the drawing-room. Vandeuvres and Fauchery were therefore unable to press the count any further. The Marquis de Chouard had arrived, and every one hastened to greet him. He seemed to move along very painfully, his legs almost giving way beneath him; and he at length stood still in the middle of the room, his face ashy pale, and his eyes blinking, as though he had just come out of some very dark place and was quite blinded by the light of the lamps.

“I had quite given up expecting to see you, father,” said the countess. “I should have been quite uneasy until I heard from you to-morrow.”

He looked at her without replying, like a man who does not understand. His nose, which appeared very big on his clean-shaven face, looked like an enormous gathering; whilst his under-lip drooped. Madame Hugon, full of kindliness, seeing him so depressed, pitied him.

“You work too much. You ought to rest. At our age we should leave work to the younger ones.”

“Work, ah! yes, work,” he at length stammered out. “Always plenty of work.”

He was becoming himself again. He straightened his bent frame, passing his hand in a way familiar with him over his white hair, the scanty locks of which were brushed behind his ears.

“What is it you work at so late?” asked Madame du Joncquoy “I thought you were at the reception held by the Minister of Finance?”

But the countess interposed, “My father had to study some parliamentary bill.”

“Yes, a parliamentary bill,” said he, “a bill, exactly. I shut myself in. It was in respect to factories. I wish them to be closed on Sundays. It is really shameful that the government does not display more energy in the matter. The churches are now scarcely frequented; it will all end in a great catastrophe.”

Vandeuvres glanced at Fauchery. They were both behind the Marquis, and they kept near him. When Vandeuvres was able to take him on one side, to ask him about the charming person whom he was in the habit of taking into the country, the old man affected great surprise. Perhaps they had seen him with Baroness Decker, at whose house at Viroflay he sometimes spent a few days. Vandeuvres, for revenge, asked him suddenly, “I say, wherever have you been? Your elbow is all covered with cobwebs and plaster.”

“My elbow,” he murmured, slightly troubled. “Why, so it is! A little dirt. I must have got that somehow as I came here.”

Several persons were leaving. It was close upon midnight. Two footmen silently removed the empty cups and the plates of cake. The ladies were still sitting in front of the fire, though in a smaller circle than before, conversing more freely in the languor of the end of an evening. Even the room itself seemed overcome with drowsiness, and heavy shadows lingered about the walls. Then Fauchery talked of retiring. However, his eyes once more sought Countess Sabine. Having seen to her guests, she was now resting in her accustomed seat, saying nothing, her glance fixed on a log that was gradually burning away, and her face so white and impenetrable, that his doubts returned to him. The little black hairs on the mark she had near the corner of her mouth seemed quite golden in the fire-light—exactly the same as Nana’s even to the colour. He could not resist whispering to Vandeuvres about it. It was really quite true, he had never noticed it before; and they continued the parallel between Nana and the countess. They discovered a vague resemblance about the chin and the mouth; but the eyes were not at all alike. There Nana looked thoroughly kind-hearted and good-natured; whilst the countess was altogether doubtful—one would have said a cat asleep, with her claws hidden away, and her paws only slightly agitated with a nervous tremble.

“All the same she’s a fine woman,” declared Fauchery.

Vandeuvres seemed to unrobe her with a glance. “Yes, all the same,” said he. “But, you know, I have great doubts as to her thighs. She hasn’t any worth speaking of, I’ll bet!”

He stopped as Fauchery sharply nudged his elbow, and directed his attention to Estelle, who was seated on her stool in front of them. They had raised their voices without noticing her, and she had most likely overheard them. However, she remained upright and immovable, with her skinny neck of a girl growing too fast, and on which not the smallest hair had turned. So they moved away a few steps, and Vandeuvres expressed his opinion that the countess was a most virtuous woman.

At this moment, the ladies seated round the fire having raised their voices, Madame du Joncquoy was heard to say, “I have admitted that Count Bismarck may possess some wit. However, if you pretend he has genius—” They had once more returned to their first subject of conversation.

“What! Bismarck again!” murmured Fauchery. “Well, this time I will indeed be off.”

“Wait a minute” said Vandeuvres. “We must have a final ‘no’ from the count.”

Count Muffat was conversing with his father-in-law and a few serious-looking men. Vandeuvres took him to one side, and repeated the invitation more pressingly, saying that he himself was going to the supper. A man could go anywhere. No one would think of seeing harm where, at the most, there was only a little curiosity. The count listened to these arguments with downcast eyes and immovable features. Vandeuvres noticed that he seemed to hesitate, when the Marquis de Chouard joined them, with a look of interrogation on his face; and when the latter was made acquainted with the subject under discussion, when Fauchery invited him also, he glanced furtively at his son-in-law. There was a moment of silence and embarrassment; but they encouraged each other, and they would no doubt have ended by accepting, if Count Muffat had not noticed that M. Venot was watching him fixedly. The little old man no longer smiled, his face bore a cadaverous expression, his eyes were sharp and piercing like gimlets.

“No,” replied the count at once, in such a decided tone of voice that there was nothing more to be said.

Then the marquis declined more sternly still. He talked of morality. The upper classes ought to set an example. Fauchery smiled, and shook hands with Vandeuvres. He would not wait for him, but went off at once, as he had to look in at the office of his paper.

“At Nana’s at midnight, don’t forget.”

La Faloise was leaving also, and Steiner had just taken leave of the countess. Other men were following them, and the same words were whispered on all sides, each one repeating, “At Nana’s at midnight,” as he put on his overcoat in the anteroom. George, who was waiting for his mother, stood in the doorway, and gave them all the correct address—the third floor, the door on the left hand side. Before retiring, Fauchery gave one last look round. Vandeuvres had resumed his place in the midst of the ladies, and was jesting with Léonide de Chezelles. Count Muffat and the Marquis de Chouard were joining in the conversation, whilst worthy Madame Hugon was going to sleep with her eyes open. Behind the ladies’ petticoats, M. Venot, making himself scarce again, had recovered his smile, and in the big, solemn room the clock slowly struck midnight.

“What! what!” Madame du Joncquoy was exclaiming, “you think that Count Bismarck will declare war against us, and that he will beat us? Oh! that’s too much!”

They were, in fact, all laughing at Madame Chantereau, who had just made the statement, which she had heard in Alsace, where her husband owned a factory.

“The Emperor is watching, thank goodness,” said Count Muffat, with official solemnity.

These were the last words that Fauchery heard. He closed the door, after looking once more at Countess Sabine. She was calmly conversing with the head of the department, and seemed interested in the talk of the stout man. Most certainly he must have been mistaken, there was no flaw. It was a pity.

“Well, aren’t you coming?” called La Faloise to him from the hall.

And outside, on the pavement, as they bid each other good night, they both again repeated, “To-morrow, at Nana’s.”