held between their finger tips. From music the talk had declined to
purveyors. Boissier was the only person for sweetmeats and Catherine for
ices. Mme Chantereau, however, was all for Latinville. Speech grew more
and more indolent, and a sense of lassitude was lulling the room to
sleep. Steiner had once more set himself secretly to undermine the
deputy, whom he held in a state of blockade in the corner of a settee.
M. Venot, whose teeth must have been ruined by sweet things, was eating
little dry cakes, one after the other, with a small nibbling sound
suggestive of a mouse, while the chief clerk, his nose in a teacup,
seemed never to be going to finish its contents. As to the countess, she
went in a leisurely way from one guest to another, never pressing them,
indeed, only pausing a second or two before the gentlemen whom she
viewed with an air of dumb interrogation before she smiled and passed
on. The great fire had flushed all her face, and she looked as if she
were the sister of her daughter, who appeared so withered and ungainly
at her side. When she drew near Fauchery, who was chatting with her
husband and Vandeuvres, she noticed that they grew suddenly silent;
accordingly she did not stop but handed the cup of tea she was offering
to Georges Hugon beyond them.

"It's a lady who desires your company at supper," the journalist gaily
continued, addressing Count Muffat.

The last-named, whose face had worn its gray look all the evening,
seemed very much surprised. What lady was it?

"Oh, Nana!" said Vandeuvres, by way of forcing the invitation.

The count became more grave than before. His eyelids trembled just
perceptibly, while a look of discomfort, such as headache produces,