‘Hallo!  Why, Gagniere’s here!’ exclaimed Sandoz.

Then, just as Gagniere was making up his mind to bow to the ladies, Mahoudeau entered.  He had already grown grey, with a sunken, fierce-looking face and childish, blinking eyes.  He still wore trousers which were a good deal too short for him, and a frock-coat which creased in the back, in spite of the money which he now earned; for the bronze manufacturer for whom he worked had brought out some charming statuettes of his, which one began to see on middle-class mantel-shelves and consoles.

Sandoz and Claude had turned round, inquisitive to witness the meeting between Mahoudeau and Mathilde.  However, matters passed off very quietly.  The sculptor bowed to her respectfully, while Jory, the husband, with his air of serene unconsciousness, thought fit to introduce her to him, for the twentieth time, perhaps.

‘Eh!  It’s my wife, old fellow.  Shake hands together.’

Thereupon, both very grave, like people of society who are forced somewhat over-promptly into familiarity, Mathilde and Mahoudeau shook hands.  Only, as soon as the latter had got rid of the job and had found Gagniere in a corner of the drawing-room, they both began sneering and recalling, in terrible language, all the abominations of yore.

Dubuche was expected that evening, for he had formally promised to come.

‘Yes,’ explained Henriette, ’there will only be nine of us.  Fagerolles wrote this morning to apologise; he is forced to go to some official dinner, but he hopes to escape, and will join us at about eleven o’clock.’

At that moment, however, a servant came in with a telegram.  It was from Dubuche, who wired:  ’Impossible to stir.  Alice has an alarming cough.’

‘Well, we shall only be eight, then,’ resumed Henriette, with the somewhat peevish resignation of a hostess disappointed by her guests.

And the servant having opened the dining-room door and announced that dinner was ready, she added: 

‘We are all here.  Claude, offer me your arm.’

Sandoz took Mathilde’s, Jory charged himself with Christine, while Mahoudeau and Gagniere brought up the rear, still joking coarsely about what they called the beautiful herbalist’s padding.

The dining-room which they now entered was very spacious, and the light was gaily bright after the subdued illumination of the drawing-room.  The walls, covered with specimens of old earthenware, displayed a gay medley of colours, reminding one of cheap coloured prints.  Two sideboards, one laden with glass and the other with silver plate, sparkled like jewellers’ show-cases.  And in the centre of the room, under the big hanging lamp girt round with tapers, the table glistened like a catafalque with the whiteness of its cloth, laid in perfect style, with decorated plates, cut-glass decanters white with water or ruddy with wine, and symmetrical side-dishes, all set out around the centre-piece, a silver basket full of purple roses.