The guests were struck dumb with astonishment.
“But those people must spend millions!” interrupted M. Chapelain.
M. Favoral started as if he had been slapped on the back.
“Bash!” he answered. “They are so rich, so awfully rich!”
He changed the conversation that evening; but on the following Saturday, from the very beginning of the dinner,
“I believe,” he said, “that M. de Thaller has just discovered a husband for his daughter.”
“My compliments!” exclaimed M. Desormeaux. “And who may this bold fellow be?”
“A nobleman, of course,” he replied. “Isn’t that the tradition? As soon as a financier has made his little million, he starts in quest of a nobleman to give him his daughter.”
One of those painful presentiments, such as arise in the inmost recesses of the soul, made Mlle. Gilberte turn pale. This presentiment suggested to her an absurd, ridiculous, unlikely thing; and yet she was sure that it would not deceive her,—so sure, indeed, that she rose under the pretext of looking for something in the side-board, but in reality to conceal the terrible emotion which she anticipated.
“And this gentleman?” inquired M. Chapelain.