t
once, and seemed to stamp her physiognomy, accentuate her character, and
strike the sharp and lively note needed.

A little girl in short frocks followed her.

Madame Forestier darted forward, exclaiming: "Good evening, Clotilde."

"Good evening, Madeleine." They kissed one another, and then the child
offered her forehead, with the assurance of a grown-up person, saying:
"Good evening, cousin."

Madame Forestier kissed her, and then introduced them, saying: "Monsieur
George Duroy, an old friend of Charles; Madame de Marelle, my friend,
and in some degree my relation." She added: "You know we have no
ceremonious affectation here. You quite understand, eh?"

The young man bowed.

The door opened again, and a short, stout gentleman appeared, having on
his arm a tall, handsome woman, much younger than himself, and of
distinguished appearance and grave bearing. They were Monsieur Walter, a
Jew from the South of France, deputy, financier, capitalist, and manager
of the _Vie Francaise_, and his wife, the daughter of Monsieur
Basile-Ravalau, the banker.

Then came, one immediately after the other, Jacques Rival, very
elegantly got up, and Norbert de Varenne, whose coat collar shone
somewhat from the friction of the long locks falling on his shoulders
and scattering over them a few specks of white scurf. His badly-tied
cravat looked as if it had already done duty. He advanced with the air
and graces of an old beau, and taking Madame Forestier's hand, printed a
kiss on her wrist. As he bent forward his long hair spread like water
over her bare arm.

Forestier entered in his turn, offering excuses for being late. He had
been detained at the office of the paper by the Morel affair. Monsieur
Morel, a Radical deputy, had just addressed a question to the Ministry
respecting a vote of credit for the colonization of Algeria.

The servant announced: "Dinner is served, Madame," and they passed into
the dining-room.

Duroy found himself seated between Madame de Marelle and her daughter.
He again felt ill at ease, being afraid of making some mistake in the
conventional handling of forks, spoons, and glasses. There were four of
these, one of a faint blue tint. What could be meant to be drunk out of
that?

Nothing was said while the soup was being consumed, and then Norbert de
Varenne asked: "Have you read the Gauthier case? What a funny business
it is."

After a discussion on this case of adultery, complicated with
blackma