THÉRÈSE had never worked so hard as she did during the following days. It was her own way to cure herself, her one infallible medicine whenever her “crises of remembrances” as she termed them, returned to haunt her. She punished her brain with a surfeit of study, as devout people tame their rebellious flesh by means of pious exercises.

For weeks at a stretch, she only left her fathe study to go to one of the libraries. The moment she came back, she fell to work again. She started once more immediately after dinner and worked until she felt too sleepy to continue. And the next morning she started again.

The remedy had seldom failed to bring prompt relief. Her effervescence calmed down gradually under the icy blast of accumulated knowledge. She was so tired that her desires weakened; the immense drama of the history of humanity helped her to hold as futile her little sentimental regrets. These lofty thoughts brought forth a supreme breath of pride and dried the inner tears which her heart persisted in distilling. Caught up once more by discipline, like a refractory horse brought back to the shafts, she assumed once more her customary existence; her soul was quieted and joyless but also too weary to attempt another revolt.

An excess of scruples even caused her this time to make no attempt whatsoever to avoid the Chambannes dinner. Her relapse had been so serious, so sudden and so childish that she stood in need of punishment. She wanted to meet again, face to face, that handsome M. de Meuze, in order to prove to herself by a defiance of the danger how foolish she had been.

Her bravery, however, much resembled the confidence inspired by an underestimated adversary. She no longer stood in dread of Gerald because she thought him the lover of Mme. Chambannes and he shared in her mind the contempt she felt towards the young woman.

But was it really contempt? ThÉrÈse was too proud to admit a feeling of jealousy towards this little brainless creature. The only feeling she avowed was one of pity.

She delighted in remembering the ill-chosen expressions and the bad grammar which characterized the conversation of dainty Mme. Chambannes. And Gerald himself, how futile his words were! His voice was that of a debauchee, an oily drawl, with accents that were imperious but carried no authority; he seemed to be in the habit of giving orders to no one but maÎtres Ôtel and loose women. The two of them made a pretty pair, a nicely matched couple!

The day of the dinner party seemed to her a long time coming, so much did she long at once to challenge them both, to hold them under the hostile coldness of her gray eyes....

Several times, M. Raindal had to drag her away from her work at night. She always grumbled before she allowed herself to be persuaded. He chided her gently and took her arm to lead her to her bedroom. They walked together along the dark passage. Everything was quiet in the house. Sometimes they paused, smilingly listening to Mme. Raindal, whose snores reached them through the closed doors. Then M. Raindal kissed his daughter and retired, feeling his way about in the dark.

“Poor girl!” he thought in mingled admiration and tenderness.

Had he but known! Had he but guessed at the struggles and the anguish of her masculine soul! Had he but heard the “Poor Father!” with which his daughter expressed to herself pity for his lack of understanding!...

The weeks passed rapidly and the day came at last when they were going to dine with the Chambannes.

Shortly after seven, ThÉrÈse was putting on the heavy dark coat she wore when she went out in evening dress, when she heard a sudden outburst of discussion in the hall and someone knocked at her door.

“Come in!” she said.

Her father entered in his shirt sleeves. His white tie hung unfastened over his waistcoat.

“Do you know what is happening?” he exclaimed. “Your mother now thinks we have been too ready to accept this invitation of Mme. Chambannes; she says that we should have tried to find out more about her.... Find out!... Find out what, I ask you, and where?... All this because of a dinner that has no importance!... She wants us to put it off now, five minutes before we are due to leave the house. What can one do? I ask you! especially I fancy that you yourself did not take greatly to the lady?...”

“Phew!” ThÉrÈse said doubtfully.

“You can guess where she gets such ideas,” M. Raindal went on, as he paced the room. “She gets them from those fellows! From the vestry!... Oh, she did deny it long.... And I have warned her that the next time they have the audacity to....”

He did not finish his sentence. Mme. Raindal entered the room, her corsage unfastened:

“Hush!” she whispered. “Someone has rung the bell. ThÉrÈse, go and open the door, dear! Brigitte has run down to get a cab.”

“Very well, mother.”

ThÉrÈse went to open the door and was surprised to find her Uncle Cyprien, who was wiping his shoes on the yellow mat in the dark hall.

“Good evening, nephew!” he exclaimed merrily. Then he noticed that ThÉrÈse had her cloak on and wore white gloves.

“Oh! you are going out! And I came to share your dinner.... What bad luck!”

He walked in. ThÉrÈse replied with constraint. They had said nothing to him about the Chambannes dinner party, for fear of his criticism.

“Yes, uncle, we are dining out.”

Hearing his brothe voice, the master came out of the room. He exchanged the customary greetings and said, to fend off any query:

“You are unlucky.... We are not dining here.... Can you come to-morrow?”

“Of course!” replied Uncle Cyprien. After a pause he added:

“Hm! Is it indiscreet to ask where you are dining?”

ThÉrÈse dared no longer to deny.

“We are going to the rue de Prony, to Mme. Chambannes’, a lady whom we met at the dance at the Saulvar.”

“Chambannes! How do you spell it?” Cyprien asked, with a suspicious grimace.

ThÉrÈse spelled it out for him. The younger M. Raindal frowned.

“Chambannes, Chambannes!” he repeated, as if he were testing the sound of a name with which his ear was not familiar.

Finally he gave it up.

“Well, au revoir!” he said, “till to-morrow!”

He shook hands with them and walked down the stairs, still muttering to himself, “Chambannes, Chambannes!”

In spite of its general aspect, the name sounded vaguely Jewish to him. Then, he reflected, everybody knew how cunning Jews were in disguising their original names and changing them into French names. They called themselves Duval, Durand or Dubourg and hid under those Gallic, Roman or Frankish syllables, names bestowed on the mount of Sinai, and Uncle Cyprien boasted of an exceptionally good scent when it came to unearthing such deceptions. He had not even admitted the purity of his own family name until after a thorough search in the libraries. The moment he reached the street, therefore, he hurried towards the Brasserie Klapproth where Schleifmann could, he felt sure, throw some light on his suspicions.

“How late you are!” the Galician exclaimed, as he started to enjoy a plateful of roast veal and jelly.

Uncle Cyprien sat beside him and studied the bill of fare.

“Yes!” he said. “I am late; I wanted to dine with my brother ... but they are dining out, at Mme. Chambannes’.”

“Rue de Prony?” Schleifmann asked.

“Then you know the lady?” Cyprien inquired.

“Oh! very little.... She is charming.... I meet her sometimes at the house of one of my pupils’ parents, young Pums, the son of M. Pums, assistant manager of the Bank of Galicia.”

“Well, I never ...” Cyprien exclaimed.

“I even knew that your brother was to dine there.... Mme. Chambannes invited Mme. Pums and gave her the names of the other guests.... She seems to think a great deal of your brother.”

“You knew it and you said nothing of it to me?” said Raindal, with a reproachful glance.

Schleifmann repressed a smile.

“Well, no! You said nothing about it.... I assumed that your brother had not told you ... out of discretion, you understand?”

Cyprien became thoughtful.

“Listen, Schleifmann.... Tell me the truth!... What kind of people are these Chambannes?... Are they all right?”

Schleifmann pretended to have some trouble in swallowing the last mouthful, in order to gain time for thinking. Of course, he could not tell a falsehood to his friend. But why, on the other hand, should he further excite this savage ill-will, ever ready to spring up; why should he help to stir up family troubles? He chose to answer with harmless fibs and did it with studied indifference.

“Well!... I could say.... The husband seemed to me a somewhat colorless person.... He is an engineer and specializes in mining affairs, I believe.... The woman is pretty, smart and pleasant.... Besides, as I told you, I hardly know them.”

Cyprien was not eating. He bit his mustache; then suddenly he burst out, as if a spring had been released:

“They are Jews, are they not?”

“I am not sure!” Schleifmann replied. “The husband comes from the Berri, where Jews have not, as a rule, colonized very much.... His wife appears rather of the Semitic type ... but so refined, so very mixed, that I dare not affirm....”

“Yet, their name!” Cyprien insisted.

“Their name!” the Galician replied, feeling his philologis pride provoked. “Actually, there is nothing to prevent it from being a Frenchified Jewish name.... Chambannes might well be derived from RhÂm-BÂhal, or from the corrupted RhÂm-BÂhan, which means, if my recollections are correct, something like high-idol, a lofty idol....”

“RhÂm-BÂhan!” Uncle Cyprien repeated complacently.... “RhÂm-BÂhan!... Of course ... tha what it is.... I thought to myself....”

The admissions made by Schleifmann had whetted his appetite and, his mouth full of food, he insinuated:

“It seems to me you spoke a little while ago of a list of guests who would be there....”

“Yes, yes,” Schleifmann said evasively.

“Well, who are they?” Cyprien insisted.

The Galician shifted uneasily.

“I have not a very clear recollection of them.... I assure you.... I have forgotten.”

“I do believe it, Schleifmann! Try to remember; there is no hurry.”

The temptation proved too strong for his friend. He could not miss such an occasion to air his rancor; he could not refrain from flaying the whole dubious clique of men who had in the past refused him a hearing. He began to feel that he lacked the strength to resist his inclination. He began, mildly at first, a few points at a time, throwing his venom upon those he hated least.

“Very well,” he said. “Le see!... To-night there will be M. Givonne, an artist who paints fans and dancing tambourines for society balls and sells anything he likes to the Americans.... Hm!... M. Mazuccio, a little Italian sculptor who spends his time telling how the women whose busts he has made are fashioned below the waist....”

“A pretty lot!” Cyprien encouraged him.

“M. Herschstein,” Schleifmann went on, more vigorously, “that excellent Herschstein.... Ho, ho! here is one I recommend to your notice.... A patriarc gray beard, fat cheeks, the head of a pleasant grandfather, as good as gold.... This does not prevent him from being one of the heads of the black band.... You know, the clan of German financiers who daily speculate against the French bonds.... Ah! many legends, many lies are told concerning the Jews.... But, alas, this is not an invention; the foul black band does exist! And it is on the cards that your comrade Schleifmann will be one of those, when the people take a fancy, on the first day of the riots, to go and find out, under their very noses, what they are brewing in that corner!”

“Good man!” M. Raindal said with emotion.

“M. Herschstein, then ... and Madame ... a tall, lanky woman with a narrow mind, who thinks she can wipe out these crimes by throwing money to all the poor people and contributing to charitable works....”

Schleifmann hit the table with his fist.

“Charity! The damned fool. I charity shl get on the day when her rascally husband has had us all expelled from here!”

“Hush, hush! Calm yourself, Schleifmann!” Uncle Cyprien whispered. He knew now he could rely on the Galician, as one could trust a roaring, flaming fire. “Calm yourself, my friend!... Who else, did you say?”

“M. de Marquesse!...” Schleifmann continued. “Another pretty fellow!... A consulting engineer.... Adviser! Ha, ha! Legal adviser, I have no doubt!... Already two societies which he “advised” have ended before a magistrate.... But he gets on just the same!... People say that his wife helps him.... Not that she is good-looking ... a head like a horse.... But men are so stupid in that set.... For the sake of an aristocratic name, my dear friend, they would entertain a mare.”

“How delightful!” Cyprien remarked, his lips twisted in a disgusted pout.

“Then there is my countryman Pums, a dark little man with a black mustache, the face of a gypsy, and his wife, a small red-headed woman.... But she is pretty, this one! plump, with a turned-up nose ... regular painte meat!”

“Wha that?” Cyprien asked.

“Yes, it is my name for these ladies, because of their inclination towards artists.... Any painter has but to stoop down to pick them up, like a ‘rag and bones’ man in a heap of rubbish.”

“And so you think that Mme. Chambannes herself....”

Schleifmann stopped him quickly.

“No, no! not at all.... Quite the contrary!”

He added maliciously:

“Mme. Chambannes leads a regular life, absolutely regular....”

Thereupon he took up the normal thread of his ideas:

“Let us go back to our people.... The Marquis de Meuze and his son, the Comte de Meuze.”

“Ah!” said M. Raindal with irony.... “Sham nobility, are they?”

“No, true.... They are very friendly with the Chambannes.... By the way, you would like the old Marquis very much.... I have been assured that he shared your horror for the Jews, who nearly ruined him at the time of the panic....”

The flame of his anger was abating. He gave a few more names, but without commenting upon them: Jean Bunel, the novelist; M. Burzig, a young broker; M. Silberschmidt and his wife.

He became silent and Cyprien asked:

“Is that all?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Schleifmann replied, as he took off his gold-rimmed spectacles to wipe the glasses, tarnished by the perspiration caused by his excitement.

M. Raindal the younger assumed a jocular expression.

“One more question, please!”

“I am listening,” Schleifmann said.

Cyprien came closer to him and asked engagingly:

“Of course, they are all Prussians?”

“No, my dear Raindal,” the Galician replied. “They are all French, or—and it is all one—naturalized Frenchmen.... Since the war.... The little Pums is their veteran.... He has been French since 1878, this little Pums.... Well I remember how proud he was of it when he came back to Lemberg, at his next annual visit.... He ran from house to house, to his friends, to his relations, showing everywhere his naturalization papers.... Anyone might have thought he was showing the diploma of a degree....”

“It is one!” remarked Cyprien.

“Yes, yes, all are naturalized French citizens,” Schleifmann continued, “with the exception of Burzig whom I was forgetting.... It is not his fault, however.... He owes that to his father.... They have the mania for change in that family. The grandfather was born in Mayence and became an American. Good! The father came to Paris and turned into a Frenchman.... Pouf! It was not enough!... He made an Englishman of his son to save him from military service.... I tell you, these damned Burzigs are never satisfied!”

He laughed, a sneer on his lips.

“If the Jews of France had red blood in their veins, I can assure you that they would have thrown out all these tourists! You, the true Frenchmen, should have made life so unbearable, so hard for them that....”

“What about yourself, Schleifmann?” Raindal asked. “Are you not going to be naturalized also?”

The Galician gave a melancholy smile.

“I, my good friend?... At my age!... What is the use? Fate made me a man without a country and a man without a country I must remain.... I am plain M. Schleifmann, a citizen of humanity, as someone said....”

“That is all very well!” Cyprien objected. “But what would happen to you if war broke out?”

“War!” Schleifmann murmured dreamily.... “First of all, shall I see it?... Then I am very old, my dear Raindal; I would make a poor kind of a soldier.... I am sorry.... However much I do detest war and the imbecile reasons for which nations massacre each other, I would have liked nevertheless to serve France, the least stupid of all nations, after all, and the most generous I have ever known....”

“Phew! You could make yourself useful in other ways,” M. Raindal said.

“True!...” Schleifmann said in a low voice, as if he were addressing his own soul. “In 1871, the Commune came!”

But Cyprien missed the tragic retort. He was already lost in joyful thoughts of the morrow. He imagined with glee how stupefied his brother would be when he heard: “Well! How is old Herschstein! And that charming Mme. Pums?... and the honorable M. Burzig!...” He laughed so loudly that he apologized to Schleifmann.

“Forgive me, I was thinking of something so funny.... Ha, ha! It is wonderful!”

He felt moved to show his gratitude:

“Here, Schleifmann, you will not refuse a glass of kirchenwasser?... GarÇon, kirchenwasser and two glasses, two big ones, customers’ glasses, you know!...”

The waiter returned with a bottle protected by a cover of twisted straw. Cyprien poured two big drinks and lifted his glass to touch that of his friend.

“To humanity, Schleifmann!” he said courteously.

“To France!” the Galician replied, and they toasted.

At the same time, the Raindal family were making their entry into the salon of Mme. Chambannes.

ZozÉ stepped out rapidly to meet them. She wore a loose dress of pink silk with subdued flowered-work. It gave her the silhouette of a Spanish princess. Chambannes followed her; he was perhaps smiling under the mystery of his huge blonde mustache. Then began the series of introductions.

Ladies first: little Mme. Pums, in a tight-fitting black robe with gold spangles, which made her plump face appear even fresher, whiter by contrast and gave added zest to her red hair; Mme. de Marquesse, a tall blonde with a horsy jaw, whose mauve crÊpe dress showed, revealed about the hips, the massive bones of a Republic or a Liberty; Mme. Silberschmidt, a thin dark woman with the face of a sick hen; Mme. Herschstein, more angular and haughty in her white satin corsage than a lady of ancient lineage. Then came the men, one by one, as they happened. They bowed low; all gave deferential yet curious looks; all shook hands eagerly and yet with shyness; they spoke in respectful but unfinished sentences, as one does in the presence of a foreign potentate with whose etiquette and language one is not very well acquainted.

Pums, the dean of the naturalized ones, was introduced last. Small, neat, yellow-faced, dressed with sober correctness—what struck one most in his physiognomy was not his Viennese stockbroker type, nor his thick black mustache, nor the gray about his temples; it was the projection of his two big light chocolate eyes, so keen in seeing things, so ingenuous and so languorous that, but for a flicker of sly archness at the bottom of them, one might have thought them the eyes of a good little boy surprised at seeing so many people. He spoke a decent French, with not more than the suspicion of a Teutonic accent: a French that was, like himself, naturalized. He was the only one who succeeded in reaching the end of his compliment.

M. Raindal had no time to thank him; they were passing into the dining-room.

Mme. Chambannes sat between the master and the Marquis de Meuze. Her husband faced her, with Mme. Raindal to his right and Mme. de Marquesse on the left. The neighbors of ThÉrÈse were Gerald and Mazuccio; the latter a sort of brown faun, who droned his with the fury of a Venetian mosquito. The rest of the company sat round the table, at seats marked by cards bearing their names. The soup was served in attentive silence.

They were obviously waiting for the master to say something important and unusual; the ladies were especially anxious to hear M. Raindal whom they imagined, after his Life of Cleopatra, to be a famous raconteur who would surely deliver some “stiff ones” during the dinner.

They were soon undeceived. He was really not very amusing, this M. Raindal, nor very original, with his fat, flabby neck, his hands that hung loose, his manners of an ill at ease ex-prefect—and his almost inaudible voice. Moreover, they were not missing much. Details on the climate of Egypt, the means of transportation, the favorable time of the year for traveling in that region—I ask you, would Baedeker or the Joanne guide give one as much?

Soon, M. Raindal had but two left to listen to him, the Marquis and Mme. Chambannes who was never tired of asking questions.

To tell the truth, he did not feel in the mood. It was not that he felt intimidated by Mme. Chambannes’ fervent glances, or the caressing roll of her r’s which made her voice softly imperious. On the contrary, he was grateful to her for not wearing a lower dress; he found her most graceful in that corsage which barely showed a modest opening and exposed a small square of skin with her fine neck free from jewelry. The surrounding sumptuousness embarrassed him much more than the tender glances of the young woman. He had written a whole chapter on the Pomp of Cleopatra; he had not winced at the gems, the gold, the incense and all the sumptuousness of the Inimitable Life; but he now remained as one dazed before the reality of a magnificence that was much inferior to it. The profusion of flowers running in garlands all over the table, the light shining in the cut glass, the dainty silver, the shining elegance of the guests were to him as so many sharp points of brilliancy that caught his eye and his thoughts. He was, moreover, further distracted by a noise that resembled the purring of an engine, the schh, the harrh, the horrh and the pff which were now fusing from the group of the Silberschmidts, the Herschsteins and the Pums, who were massed on one side of the table.

They had evidently made themselves at home; their tongues wagged, they used their native language, which sounded like a gargle. The French language? Why, that was a dialect for official use, good enough when one had to be polite, for social life.... But why should they place such a check upon themselves when they talked business, when it came to serious or intimate matters? How could they do it, anyhow? Was not this native language of theirs which sprang to their lips with a naÏve instinctive vigor stronger than anything else, stronger than any decree or any oath of allegiance? You should have seen the jeering wink that accompanied Pums’ inquiries concerning the krankheit (illness) of the Sultan and the no less knowing look in the eyes of Herschstein when he replied. That indisposition of the Sultan had proved devilishly successful; it was Herschstei idea, had been sent from Paris to Vienna, re-telegraphed from Vienna to Paris, and had upset the Bourse throughout the afternoon. Turkish stocks had tumbled down, 3 francs, 6 francs, 10 francs at a time and the panic had spread to the French rent! Result: about 100,000 francs for each of the active members of the black band and a paltry 25,000 for Pums, who was only an ally, a sort of honorary accomplice. However, he was not dissatisfied with his share and even wished to pay back Herschstein who explained to him the new plans of the Bank of Galicia concerning certain gold mines. That scheme consisted in forming a syndicate which would be named an Investigating Society and would glean from the market the least suspicious mining bonds. Moreover, it was an easy operation; they had first only to depreciate these values by means of alarming news and then send them soaring up to the highest point by means of optimistic news. The art of the market at its infancy! The infallible process. Young Burzig who, being a British subject, had been ceaselessly flirting in English with pretty Mme. Pums, brusquely returned to the German of his family in order to take part in the discussion and the projects of the group. They were discussing with de Marquesse what bonds they could choose, what mines would be drained in the course of the operation. English or Dutch names, more blazing than tiaras, were quoted: the Pink Star of South Africa, the Transvaal Sun, the Source of the Carbuncles....

Suddenly there were signs of restlessness in the one little green eye of the Marquis de Meuze. It rolled, turned and trembled in its orbit like a fishing cork. He tried hard to take in what was being said. What! There was no mistake about it this time! They were talking about gold mines at the end of the table. Quite so.... Gold mines! Nom n bon homme! Nom n chien! How could he listen to these gentlemen without being discourteous to the other one, that M. Raindal with his damned stories about mummies and Mariette Bey?... The marquis tried vainly to follow both conversations and his face became purple in the attempt. He could only hear a few words of the one that was carried on further from him: fontein ... rand ... chartered ... Cecil Rhodes ... de Beers ... claim ... and their technical syllables further pricked his curiosity. Well, it was no small matter to him! 120,000 francs engaged on the mining market. “120,000” the marquis repeated to himself; did it not give him a right to a certain amount of anxiety? And it seemed that it was in answer to him that he heard the voice of Pums in a half silence.

“Ya! Gewiss.... Ich glaube das die Red-Diamond....”

The Red-Diamond—Fontein!... Why, that was the favorite mine of the marquis, his most beloved stock, “his little Red Diamond,” as he called it victoriously! This time M. de Meuze could no longer contain himself. Brutally he turned right about and addressed the financiers:

“Excuse me, M. Pums, you have just mentioned the Red Diamond, I believe? Would it be indiscreet to ask what you were saying about it?”

“Not at all, marquis,” Pums replied, for he always felt honored when M. de Meuze consulted him.

And out of regard for the aged nobleman, the sizing up of the different mining stocks was carried on in French.

However, M. Raindal had not noticed this desertion. It was some time already since he had been speaking for Zoz benefit alone; he felt that a gradual mist of sympathy isolated them together from the rest of the party. He thought to himself, charmed and perhaps also emboldened by the mixture of wines he had been drinking:

“I was right.... One of Cleopatr followers!... A little Greek girl.... A true little Greek!”

Then he went on:

“One day the fellahs refused to carry our luggage on board; Mariette Bey rushed upon them, revolver in hand....”

ZozÉ exclaimed, amazed by his tales. She was not lacking in good will or respect for philosophical maxims; she only relaxed her zeal when she could not understand. At such time her eyes wandered, innocently settling in turn upon each of the guests, in an impersonal and almost mechanical need for tenderness which she still preserved from her past quests.

The little Pums rushed forward; his eyelids quivered; he was like a gymnast anxious to catch his trapeze. Poor fellow, he was so much in love! Geral reply was a cordial grimace, made with his nose or his mouth or his cheeks, and ZozÉ understood him: “Yes, of course, it is quite understood, we two are lovers!” But Mlle. Raindal, alas, seemed less satisfied. Poor girl! Gerald and Mazuccio—they were leaving her shamelessly alone. One inclined his face towards the flat chest of Germaine de Marquesse and almost touched her; the othe face was aflame; he had turned entirely to one side, close to that lascivious hen, Mme. Silberschmidt! What a gap there was on each side of the poor girl! No, it was really not nice for them to treat her in this fashion as if she were a governess.

Thereupon Mme. Chambannes would look again into M. Rainda eyes. That had the same effect upon him as if someone had poured something hot inside him, and he became quite red. His eyes blinked with pleasure. He coughed to gather himself together again and lifted his head, unconsciously awaiting the next soulful look, or else he admired Zoz profile; it was so neat, so delicate under her gathered hair which was caught behind by a tiny bow of pearls. And as he went on with his anecdotes, he repeated to himself:

“A true little Greek!... A little Greek girl from the Islands.”

Suddenly the true little Greek became restless on her chair; her face showed suspicion; she looked hard towards Mlle. Raindal who was half-hidden from her behind a bunch of mauve orchids set up in the middle of the table.

Well! What was amusing the girl so? What was it that brought to the corners of her mouth this set, oldish smile like a wrinkle? What was the meaning of the contemptuous glances and the commiserating attitude with which she scrutinized all the guests one after the other!

“Upon my word,” Mme. Chambannes thought, “one might think she was looking at savages or niggers!”

But a new thought came to her.

“Oh, well! The poor girl is annoyed!... I can well understand it!...”

Mme. Chambannes called Gerald in friendly words, to bring him back to his duties. They were serving the finger bowls. It was too late, after all! She would see to it next time! She pressed her nails into the translucent slice of lemon which floated on the surface of the water. She pushed back her chair with slow discretion and everybody rose.

“Mademoiselle!” Gerald said, offering his arm to ThÉrÈse.

The young girl laid her hand on it but avoided his eyes, disdainfully turning her head away. They walked to the drawing-room without a word. Gerald multiplied his courteous, deferential attitudes; he drew in his chest and gave all the signs of a well-bred man of the world who knew that he was at fault and exonerated himself silently. He escorted her to Mme. Raindal and softly withdrew his arm.

“Mademoiselle!”

He bowed with much ceremony and directed his steps towards the smoking-room. ThÉrÈse could not prevent herself from watching him.

The balancing of his tall frame on his bent legs gave him the relieved, weary gait of a man who has just come down from his horse, or of one who has accomplished an imposed task. Outside the smoking-room he took Mazuccio familiarly by the shoulders to make him pass in front; she heard them still laughing behind the old tapestry portiÈre—a mysterious throaty laugh which even at a distance had an obscene sound.

“Well, dear?” M. Raindal murmured, as he approached in short and somewhat heavy steps. “How was the dinner?”

“Excellent,” ThÉrÈse replied coldly, and sat down to the right of her mother. “I am delighted that we came....”

“That is what I thought,” M. Raindal continued softly, mistaking his daughte tone. “This Mme. Chambannes entertains people in the most perfect fashion.... Now ... you agree that I was right not to let myself be stopped by certain prejudices, certain preconceived ideas!...”

This allusion caused Mme. Raindal to blush suddenly, but ThÉrÈse, a sneer on her lips, whispered:

“Why, surely, father, I told you.... These people improve very much on closer acquaintance....”

M. Raindal turned round. Mme. Chambannes was calling him away to offer him some coffee.

At the other end of the drawing-room little Mme. Pums and tall Mme. de Marquesse were holding each other by the waist and exchanged joyful secrets concerning the use they had made of their afternoon. Their outward contrast brought out all the more the best points of each. One guessed that they shared the same tastes and the same aptitudes, everything they needed to take part in full agreement in some party of four, especially with two pleasant men of corresponding height.

Still linked together they marched through the room. Mme. de Marquesse pulled aside the curtain of the smoking-room; joyful exclamations greeted the graceful pair. They went in altogether and the shouts increased. These gentlemen were not ungrateful.

The conversation dragged until their return. Mme. Chambannes tried to make small talk with ThÉrÈse and Mme. Raindal, while Mme. Herschstein paid compliments to the master. But the subjects of conversation were getting scarce. She remarked on the late hours of modern dinners and gave out some prognostications concerning the forthcoming winter; and then ZozÉ began to feel ill at ease. Great Heavens! What could she talk about? Dresses! She must not think of it! Poor women, they were rather “trussed up!” Theaters? They had admitted that they had not been to one for two years. ZozÉ tried; she groped for ideas; the gray eyes of ThÉrÈse looked sternly into hers and put her further out of countenance. She was very intelligent perhaps, this Mlle. Raindal, but she was not easy to get on with.... “No go in her,” as Gerald would declare. ZozÉ was on the verge of forgiving him his brutal silence during the dinner.

At last the men returned, with the exception of the marquis, whose apologies George Chambannes offered to M. Raindal. As a rule, that was the hour for smutty stories. They would go by twos to whisper in the dark corners; the old people usually remained in sight in the center of the room, peacefully discussing aloud their money matters or their infirmities.

The presence of the Raindal family probably made the guests feel ill at ease, for they did not attempt their usual customary maneuver. Two of them only, Givonne the painter of tambourines, and little Mme. Pums, who had been last in leaving the smoking-room, dared to maintain the tradition. They settled down in a window corner. With the exact expression of an English commercial traveler it seemed, at a distance, as if Givonne was praising to Mme. Pums some article which, he promised, would give her complete satisfaction.

M. Raindal examined them for a moment with a mechanical benevolence. But he felt his eyelids becoming heavy. The abundant meal or the efforts to recall his memories which he had made during the dinner made him feel very tired. To avoid speaking he made free use of affable smiles.

The entrance of Jean Bunel, whom Mme. Chambannes brought towards him, gave him a pretext to rise.

“M. Jean Bunel, whose beautiful novels sure you have read,” ZozÉ said in presenting him.

“To be sure.... Delighted, my dear confrÈre!” said M. Raindal warmly, as he pressed the hand of Bunel, whose name he was nevertheless hearing for the first time.

He was a young man with a fine brown beard; rapidly he turned out an admiring sentence, as pointed and pretty as a candy cone.

M. Raindal thanked him with a bow, and made a sign to Mme. Raindal and ThÉrÈse, who rose at the same time.

“You are not going already?” Mme. Chambannes asked, exaggerating her regret.

M. Raindal mumbled some excuse and they all walked together towards the hall.

A wave of relief passed over the guests. It was not one old maid but three who were disappearing through that door! A feeling of frolic was in the air; they all felt a need to let out foolish remarks and to fall back into their habits. Yet they still held themselves in hand, out of the respect which notoriety inspires in the minds of uncultured people.

When Mme. Chambannes returned, she found them all silent.

“Well, you are not very gay here,” she exclaimed, and added after a pause:

“What do you think of him?”

“Oh, your little friend is charming!” said Gerald, in the midst of an explosion of laughter.

Pums encouraged by this success tried also to say something very funny, but Jean Bunel declared in commanding tones:

“His is nothing less than one of the most remarkable minds of the day!”

“st-ce pas?” ZozÉ murmured.

“Yes,” Bunel went on, moved as much by a generous impulse of solidarity as by a malicious delight in contradicting a clubman.... “Yes, without comparing him to Taine or Renan, I think that within the last few years the science of history has produced no more vigorous brain nor a purer stylist....”

“Really?” Pums exclaimed, suddenly brought round to another view.

As a matter of fact, the only reproach which he had for M. Raindal was that he spoke too low. Silberschmidt agreed with him. Mme. Herschstein, to whom the master had listened, affirmed that M. Raindal was one of the most interesting of men. Mme. Pums thought he had a very expressive face. Givonne was called down for voicing a criticism of Mme. Rainda dress. Did such things count?

The change was so decisive and so general that ZozÉ felt much pity for her little Raldo. Poor darling! What a snubbing!

She walked to the fireplace where he stood, his elbows resting on the marble of the mantelpiece. When she came quite close to him she murmured in a passionate whisper the query which had kept her throat dry for the last three hours:

“Do you love me?”

Free from spite, the count instantly affirmed that he did.