Evidently the dinner—­a repast for a veritable gourmet, superintended by the Austrian lady in its least details—­had been prepared for a guest of great mark.  From the lofty Kabyle chandelier with its seven branches of carved wood, which cast its light over the table-cloth covered with embroidery, to the long-necked decanters holding the wines within their strange and exquisite form, the sumptuous magnificence of the service, the delicacy of the meats, to which edge was given by a certain unusualness in their selection, revealed the importance of the expected visitor, the anxiety which there had been to please him.  The table was certainly that of an artist.  Little silver, but superb china, much unity of effect, without the least attempt at matching.  The old Rouen, the pink Sevres, the Dutch glass mounted in old filigree pewter met on this table as on a sideboard devoted to the display of rare curios collected by a connoisseur exclusively for the satisfaction of his taste.  A little disorder naturally, in this household equipped at hazard, as choice things could be picked up.  The wonderful cruet-stand had lost its stoppers.  The chipped salt-cellar allowed its contents to escape on the table-cloth, and at every moment you would hear, “Why! what is become of the mustard-pot?” “What has happened to this fork?” This embarrassed de Gery a little on account of the young mistress of the house, who for her part took no notice of it.

But something made Paul feel still more ill at ease—­his anxiety, namely, to know who the privileged guest might be whom he was replacing at this table, who could be treated at once with so much magnificence and so complete an informality.  In spite of everything, he felt him present, an offence to his personal dignity, that visitor whose invitation had been cancelled.  It was in vain that he tried to forget him; everything brought him back to his mind, even the fine dress of the good fairy sitting opposite him, who still maintained some of the grand airs with which she had equipped herself in advance for the solemn occasion.  This thought troubled him, spoiled for him the pleasure of being there.

On the other hand, by contrast, as it happens in all friendships between two people who meet very rarely, never had he seen Felicia so affectionate, in such happy temper.  It was an overflowing gaiety that was almost childish, one of those warm expansions of feeling that are experienced when a danger has been passed, the reaction of a bright roaring fire after the emotion of a shipwreck.  She laughed heartily, teased Paul about his accent and what she called his bourgeois ideas.  “For you are a terrible bourgeois, you know.  But it is that that I like in you.  It is an effect of contraries, doubtless; it is because I myself was born under a bridge, in a gust of wind, that I have always liked sedate, reasonable natures.”

“Oh, my child, what are you going to have M. Paul think, that you were born under a bridge?” said the good Crenmitz, who could not accustom herself to the exaggeration of certain metaphors, and always took everything literally.