sband, M. de Chandour, known in the circle as Stanislas, was a
_ci-devant_ young man, slim still at five-and-forty, with a countenance
like a sieve. His cravat was always tied so as to present two menacing
points--one spike reached the height of his right ear, the other pointed
downwards to the red ribbon of his cross. His coat-tails were violently
at strife. A cut-away waistcoat displayed the ample, swelling curves of
a stiffly-starched shirt fastened by massive gold studs. His dress, in
fact, was exaggerated, till he looked almost like a living caricature,
which no one could behold for the first time with gravity.

Stanislas looked himself over from top to toe with a kind of
satisfaction; he verified the number of his waistcoat buttons, and
followed the curving outlines of his tight-fitting trousers with fond
glances that came to a standstill at last on the pointed tips of his
shoes. When he ceased to contemplate himself in this way, he looked
towards the nearest mirror to see if his hair still kept in curl; then,
sticking a finger in his waistcoat pocket, he looked about him at the
women with happy eyes, flinging his head back in three-quarters profile
with all the airs of a king of the poultry-yard, airs which were
prodigiously admired by the aristocratic circle of which he was the
beau. There was a strain of eighteenth century grossness, as a rule,
in his talk; a detestable kind of conversation which procured him some
success with women--he made them laugh. M. du Chatelet was beginning
to give this gentleman some uneasiness; and, as a matter of fact, since
Mme. de Bargeton had taken him up, the lively interest taken by the
women in the Byron of Angouleme was distinctly on the increase. His
coxcomb superciliousness tickled their curiosity; he posed as the man
whom nothing can arouse from his apathy, and his jaded Sultan airs were
like a challenge.

Amelie de Chandour, short, plump, fair-complexioned, and dark-haired,
was a poor actress; her voice was loud, like everything else about her;
her head, with its load of feathers in winter and flowers in summer, was
never still for a moment. She had a fine flow of conversation,
though she could never bring a sentence to an end without a wheezing
accompaniment from an asthma, to which she would not confess.

M. de Saintot, otherwise Astolphe, President of the Agricultural
Society, a tall, stout, high-colored personage, usually appeared in the
wake of his wife, Elisa, a la