LITMIR.BIZ

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whose wainscotting of stained and varnished pear-wood rose to the height of a man, and was decorated with slender headings of gold. The four large panels had evidently been prepared so that they might be filled up with paintings of still life; but this had never been done, the landlord having doubtless recoiled before a purely artistic expenditure. They had been hung simply with dark-green velvet. The chairs, curtains, and door-hangings of the same material gave the room a look of sober seriousness, calculated to concentrate on the table all the splendour of the light.

      And indeed, at this hour, the table, standing in the centre of the wide, dark Persian carpet, which deadened the sounds of the footsteps, and under the glaring light of the chandelier, surrounded by chairs whose black backs, with fillets of gold, encircled it with a dark frame, seemed like an altar, like a mortuary chapel, as the bright scintillations of the crystal glass and silver plate sparkled on the dazzling whiteness of the cloth. Beyond the carved chairbacks, one could just perceive, in a floating shadow, the wainscotting of the walls, a large low sideboard, ends of velvet hanging here and there. The eye was of necessity drawn back to the table, and became filled with the splendour of it. A beautiful dead-silver centre-piece, glittering with its chased work, stood in the middle of the table; it represented a troop of satyrs carrying off nymphs; above the group, issuing from a large cornucopia, an enormous bouquet of real flowers hung down in clusters. At either end of the table stood vases with more flowers, a pair of candelabra, matching the centre group, and each consisting of a satyr running off with a swooning woman on one arm, and holding in the other a ten-branched candlestick which added the brilliancy of its candles to the lustre of the central chandelier. Between these principal ornaments the first dishes, large and small, were ranged symmetrically, flanked by shells containing the hors d’œuvre, and separated by Porcelain bowls, crystal vases, flat plates and tall preserve-stands, filled with that portion of the dessert that was already on the table. Along the line of plates ran an army of glasses, of water-bottles, of decanters, of salt-cellars, and all this glass was as thin and light as muslin, uncut, and so transparent that it cast no shadow. And the centre-piece and candelabra seemed like fountains of fire; sparks glittered in the burnished silver dishes; the forks, the spoons, and the knives with handles of mother-of-pearl were as bars of flame; colours kaleidoscopic filled the glasses; and, in the midst of this rain of light, of this mass of incandescence, the decanters threw red stains upon the white-hot cloth.

      On entering, a discreet expression of felicity overspread the faces of the men, as they smiled to the ladies on their arms. The flowers imparted a freshness to the heavy atmosphere. Delicately the fumes of cooked food mingled with the perfume of the roses. The sharp odour of prawns predominated, and the sour scent of citrons.

      Then, when each had found his name written on the back of his menu-card, there was a noise of chairs, a great rustling of silken dresses. The bare shoulders, studded with diamonds, separated by black coats, which served to throw up their pallor, added their creamy whiteness to the gleam of the table. The dinner began amidst little smiles exchanged between neighbours, in a semi-silence only broken as yet by the muffled clattering of spoons. Baptiste fulfilled his office of majordomo with his serious diplomatic attitudes; under his orders were, in addition to the two footmen, four assistants whom he only engaged for the great dinners. As he removed each dish to the end of the room and carved it at a side-table, three of the servants passed noiselessly round the table, dish in hand, naming the contents in an undertone as they handed them. The others served the wine, and saw to the bread and the decanters. The removes and entrées thus slowly went round and disappeared; the ladies’ pearly laughter grew no shriller.

      The guests were too many for the conversation easily to become general. Nevertheless, at the second course, when the game and side-dishes had replaced the removes and entrées, and the generous wines of Burgundy, Pomard and Chambertin, succeeded the Léoville and Chateau-Lafitte, the sound of voices increased, and bursts of laughter caused the light glass to ring again. Renée, seated at the middle of the table, had on her right the Baron Gouraud, and on her left M. Toutin-Laroche, a retired candle-manufacturer, and now a Municipal Councillor, a director of the Crédit Viticole, and a member of the committee of inspection of the Société Générale of the Ports of Morocco, a lean, important person, whom Saccard, sitting opposite between Mme. d’Espanet and Mme. Haffner, addressed at one moment, in unctuous tones, as “My dear colleague,” and at another as “Our great administrator.” Next came the politicians: M. Hupel de la Noue, a provincial préfet, who spent eight months of the year in Paris; three deputies, among whom M. Haffner displayed his broad Alsatian face; then M. de Saffré, a charming young man, secretary to one of the ministers; and M. Michelin, the First Commissioner of Roads. M. de Mareuil, a perpetual candidate for the Chamber of Deputies, sat square, facing the préfet, whom he ogled persistently. As to M. d’Espanet, he never accompanied his wife into society. The ladies of the family were placed between the most prominent of these personages. Saccard had, however, kept his sister Sidonie, whom he had placed further off, for the seat between the two contractors, the Sieur Charrier on her right, the Sieur Mignon on her left, as being a post of trust where it was a question of conquest. Mme. Michelin, the wife of the First Commissioner, a plump, pretty, dark woman, sat next to M. de Saffré, with whom she carried on an animated conversation in a low voice. And at either end of the table were the young people, auditors to the Council of State, sons of useful fathers, budding millionaires, M. de Mussy, casting despairing glances at Renée, and Maxime, apparently quite vanquished by Louise de Mareuil, who sat on his right. Little by little they had begun to laugh very loudly. It was from their corner that the first outbursts of gaiety proceeded.

      Meanwhile M. Hupel de la Noue enquired courteously:

      “Shall we have the pleasure of seeing his Excellency this evening?”

      “I fear not,” answered Saccard with an air of importance that concealed a secret annoyance. “My brother is so busy…. He has sent us his secretary, M. de Saffré, to make his apologies to us.”

      The young secretary, whom Mme. Michelin was decidedly monopolizing, raised his head on hearing his name mentioned, and cried at random, thinking that he had been spoken to:

      “Yes, yes, there is to be a cabinet council this evening at nine o’clock at the office of the Keeper of the Seals.”

      All this time, M. Toutin-Laroche, who had been interrupted, was continuing seriously, as though he were delivering a peroration amid the attentive silence of the Municipal Council:

      “The results are superb. The city loan will be remembered as one of the finest financial operations of the period. Ah! messieurs….”

      But at this point his voice was again drowned in the laughter that broke out suddenly at one end of the table. In the midst of this outburst of merriment could be heard Maxime’s voice, as he concluded an anecdote: “But wait, I have not finished. The fair equestrian was picked up by a road-labourer. They say she is having him brilliantly educated with a view to marrying him later on. No man but her husband, she says, shall boast of having seen a certain black mole just above her knee.” The laughter redoubled; Louise laughed unreservedly, louder than the men. And noiselessly amid this laughter, as though deaf, a footman at this moment thrust his pale serious face between each guest, offering in a low voice slices of wild duck.

      Aristide was annoyed at the want of attention paid to M. Toutin-Laroche. He repeated, to show that he had been listening:

      “The city loan….”

      But M. Toutin-Laroche was not the man to lose the thread of an idea:

      “Ah! messieurs,” he continued when the laughter had subsided, “yesterday was a great consolation to us whose administration is exposed to such base attacks. They accuse the council of leading the city to destruction, and you see, no sooner does the city issue a loan, than they all bring us their money, even those who complain.”

      “You have performed wonders,” said Saccard. “Paris has become the capital of the world.”

      “Yes, it is really astounding,” interposed M. Hupel de la Noue. “Can you imagine that I, old Parisian that I am, no longer know my Paris. I lost my way yesterday in going from the Hotel de Ville to the Luxembourg. It’s astounding, astounding!”

      There

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