The door was opened, and, followed by a waiter, the two ladies appeared, veiled, muffled, reserved, with that charmingly mysterious bearing they assume in such places, where the surroundings are suspicious.
As Duroy bowed to Madame Forestier she scolded him for not having come to see her again; then she added with a smile, in the direction of her friend: “I know what it is; you prefer Madame de Marelle, you can find time to visit her.”
They sat down to table, and the waiter having handed the wine card to Forestier, Madame de Marelle exclaimed: “Give these gentlemen whatever they like, but for us iced champagne, the best, sweet champagne, mind—nothing else.” And the man having withdrawn, she added with an excited laugh: “I am going to get tipsy this evening; we will have a spree—a regular spree.”
Forestier, who did not seem to have heard, said: “Would you mind the window being closed? My chest has been rather queer the last few days.”
“No, not at all.”
He pushed too the sash left open, and returned to his place with a reassured and tranquil countenance. His wife said nothing. Seemingly lost in thought, and with her eyes lowered towards the table, she smiled at the glasses with that vague smile which seemed always to promise and never to grant.
The Ostend oysters were brought in, tiny and plump like little ears enclosed in shells, and melting between the tongue and the palate like salt bonbons. Then, after the soup, was served a trout as rose-tinted as a young girl, and the guests began to talk.
They spoke at first of a current scandal; the story of a lady of position, surprised by one of her husband’s friends supping in a private room with