He stopped, for Fauchery touched him briskly on the arm and showed him Estelle, sitting close to them on her footstool.  They had raised their voices without noticing her, and she must have overheard them.  Nevertheless, she continued sitting there stiff and motionless, not a hair having lifted on her thin neck, which was that of a girl who has shot up all too quickly.  Thereupon they retired three or four paces, and Vandeuvres vowed that the countess was a very honest woman.  Just then voices were raised in front of the hearth.  Mme du Joncquoy was saying: 

“I was willing to grant you that Monsieur de Bismarck was perhaps a witty man.  Only, if you go as far as to talk of genius—­”

The ladies had come round again to their earliest topic of conversation.

“What the deuce!  Still Monsieur de Bismarck!” muttered Fauchery.  “This time I make my escape for good and all.”

“Wait a bit,” said Vandeuvres, “we must have a definite no from the count.”

The Count Muffat was talking to his father-in-law and a certain serious-looking gentleman.  Vandeuvres drew him away and renewed the invitation, backing it up with the information that he was to be at the supper himself.  A man might go anywhere; no one could think of suspecting evil where at most there could only be curiosity.  The count listened to these arguments with downcast eyes and expressionless face.  Vandeuvres felt him to be hesitating when the Marquis de Chouard approached with a look of interrogation.  And when the latter was informed of the question in hand and Fauchery had invited him in his turn, he looked at his son-in-law furtively.  There ensued an embarrassed silence, but both men encouraged one another and would doubtless have ended by accepting had not Count Muffat perceived M. Venot’s gaze fixed upon him.  The little old man was no longer smiling; his face was cadaverous, his eyes bright and keen as steel.

“No,” replied the count directly, in so decisive a tone that further insistence became impossible.

Then the marquis refused with even greater severity of expression.  He talked morality.  The aristocratic classes ought to set a good example.  Fauchery smiled and shook hands with Vandeuvres.  He did not wait for him and took his departure immediately, for he was due at his newspaper office.

“At Nana’s at midnight, eh?”

La Faloise retired too.  Steiner had made his bow to the countess.  Other men followed them, and the same phrase went round—­“At midnight, at Nana’s”—­as they went to get their overcoats in the anteroom.  Georges, who could not leave without his mother, had stationed himself at the door, where he gave the exact address.  “Third floor, door on your left.”  Yet before going out Fauchery gave a final glance.  Vandeuvres had again resumed his position among the ladies and was laughing with Leonide de Chezelles.  Count Muffat and the Marquis de Chouard were joining in the conversation, while the good Mme Hugon was falling asleep open-eyed.  Lost among the petticoats, M. Venot was his own small self again and smiled as of old.  Twelve struck slowly in the great solemn room.