Sabine was saying something to him. But he did not hear her, so amusing and extraordinary did he esteem the Muffats' case. She repeated the question.
“Monsieur Fauchery, have you not published a sketch of Monsieur de Bismarck? You spoke with him once?”
He got up briskly and approached the circle of ladies, endeavoring to collect himself and soon with perfect ease of manner finding an answer:
“Dear me, madame, I assure you I wrote that 'portrait' with the help of biographies which had been published in Germany. I have never seen Monsieur de Bismarck.”
He remained beside the countess and, while talking with her, continued his meditations. She did not look her age; one would have set her down as being twenty-eight at most, for her eyes, above all, which were filled with the dark blue shadow of her long eyelashes, retained the glowing light of youth. Bred in a divided family, so that she used to spend one month with the Marquis de Chouard, another with the marquise, she had been married very young, urged on, doubtless, by her father, whom she embarrassed after her mother's death. A terrible man was the marquis, a man about whom strange tales were beginning to be told, and that despite his lofty piety! Fauchery asked if he should have the honor of meeting him. Certainly her father was coming, but only very late; he had so much work on hand! The journalist thought he knew where the old gentleman passed his evenings and looked grave. But a mole, which he noticed close to her mouth on the countess's left cheek, surprised him. Nana had precisely the same mole. It was curious. Tiny hairs curled up on it, only they were golden in Nana's case, black as jet in this. Ah well, never mind! This woman enjoyed nobody's embraces.
“I have always felt a wish to know Queen Augusta,” she said. “They say she is so good, so devout. Do you think she will accompany the king?”
“It is not thought that she will, madame,” he replied.
She had no lovers: the thing was only too apparent. One had only to look at her there by the side of that daughter of hers, sitting so insignificant and constrained on her footstool. That sepulchral drawing room of hers, which exhaled odors suggestive of being in a church, spoke as plainly as words could of the iron hand, the austere mode of existence, that weighed her down. There was nothing suggestive of her own personality in that ancient abode, black with the damps of years. It was Muffat who made himself felt there, who dominated his surroundings with his devotional training, his penances and his fasts. But the sight of the little old gentleman with the black teeth and subtle smile whom he suddenly discovered in his armchair behind the group of ladies afforded him a yet more decisive argument. He knew the personage. It was Theophile Venot, a retired lawyer who had made a specialty of church cases. He had left off practice with a handsome fortune and was now leading a sufficiently mysterious existence, for he was received everywhere, treated with great deference and even somewhat feared, as though he had been the representative of a mighty force, an occult power, which was felt to be at his back. Nevertheless, his behavior was very humble. He was churchwarden at the Madeleine Church and had simply accepted the post of deputy mayor at the town house of the Ninth Arrondissement in order, as he said, to have something to do in his leisure time. Deuce take it, the countess was well guarded; there was nothing to be done in that quarter.
“You're right, it's enough to make one kick the bucket here,” said Fauchery to his cousin when he had made good his escape from the circle of ladies. “We'll hook it!”
But Steiner, deserted at last by the Count Muffat and the deputy, came up in a fury. Drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, and he grumbled huskily:
“Gad! Let 'em tell me nothing, if nothing they want to tell me. I shall find people who will talk.”
Then he pushed the journalist into a corner and, altering his tone, said in accents of victory:
“It's tomorrow, eh? I'm of the party, my bully!”
“Indeed!” muttered Fauchery with some astonishment.
“You didn't know about it. Oh, I had lots of bother to find her at home. Besides, Mignon never would leave me alone.”
“But they're to be there, are the Mignons.”
“Yes, she told me so. In fact, she did receive my visit, and she invited me. Midnight punctually, after the play.”
The banker was beaming. He winked and added with a peculiar emphasis on the words:
“You've worked it, eh?”
“Eh, what?” said Fauchery, pretending not to understand him. “She wanted to thank me for my article, so she came and called on me.”
“Yes, yes. You fellows are fortunate. You get rewarded. By the by, who pays the piper tomorrow?”
The journalist made a slight outward movement with his arms, as though he would intimate that no one had ever been able to find out. But Vandeuvres called to Steiner, who knew M. de Bismarck. Mme. du Joncquoy had almost convinced herself of the truth of her suppositions; she concluded with these words:
“He gave me an unpleasant impression. I think his face is evil. But I am quite willing to believe that he has a deal of wit. It would account for his successes.”
“Without doubt,” said the banker with a faint smile. He was a Jew from Frankfort.
Meanwhile La Faloise at last made bold to question his cousin. He followed him up and got inside his guard:
“There's supper at a woman's tomorrow evening? With which of them, eh? With which of them?”
Fauchery motioned to him that they were overheard and must respect the conventions here. The door had just been opened anew, and an old lady had come in, followed by a young man in whom the journalist recognized the truant schoolboy, perpetrator of the famous and as yet unforgotten “tres chic” of the Blonde Venus first night. This lady's arrival caused a stir among the company. The Countess Sabine had risen briskly from her seat in order to go and greet her, and she had taken both her hands in hers and addressed her as her “dear Madame Hugon.” Seeing that his cousin viewed this little episode with some curiosity, La Faloise sought to arouse his interest and in a few brief phrases explained the position. Mme. Hugon, widow of a notary, lived in retirement at Les Fondettes, an old estate of her family's in the neighborhood of Orleans, but she also kept up a small establishment in Paris in a house belonging to her in the Rue de Richelieu and was now passing some weeks there in order to settle her youngest son, who was reading the law and in his “first year.” In old times she had been a dear friend of the Marquise de Chouard and had assisted at the birth of the countess, who, prior to her marriage, used to stay at her house for months at a time and even now was quite familiarly treated by her.
“I have brought Georges to see you,” said Mme. Hugon to Sabine. “He's grown, I trust.”
The young man with his clear eyes and the fair curls which suggested a girl dressed up as a boy bowed easily to the countess and reminded her of a bout of battledore and shuttlecock they had had together two years ago at Les Fondettes.
“Philippe is not in Paris?” asked Count Muffat.
“Dear me, no!” replied the old lady. “He is always in garrison at Bourges.” She had seated herself and began talking with considerable pride of her eldest son, a great big fellow who, after enlisting in a fit of waywardness, had of late very rapidly attained the rank of lieutenant. All the ladies behaved to her with respectful sympathy, and conversation was resumed in a tone at once more amiable and more refined.
