II

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.