“Get along, you idiot!” he said finally as he shrugged his shoulders.
Then he shook hands with the other gentlemen, while La Faloise, in his discomfiture, felt rather uncertain whether he had said something funny. The men chatted. Since the races the banker and Foucarmont had formed part of the set in the Avenue de Villiers. Nana was going on much better, and every evening the count came and asked how she did. Meanwhile Fauchery, though he listened, seemed preoccupied, for during a quarrel that morning Rose had roundly confessed to the sending of the letter. Oh yes, he might present himself at his great lady’s house; he would be well received! After long hesitation he had come despite everything—out of sheer courage. But La Faloise’s imbecile pleasantry had upset him in spite of his apparent tranquillity.
“What’s the matter?” asked Philippe. “You seem in trouble.”
“I do? Not at all. I’ve been working: that’s why I came so late.”
Then coldly, in one of those heroic moods which, although unnoticed, are wont to solve the vulgar tragedies of existence:
“All the same, I haven’t made my bow to our hosts. One must be civil.”
He even ventured on a joke, for he turned to La Faloise and said:
“Eh, you idiot?”
And with that he pushed his way through the crowd. The valet’s full voice was no longer shouting out names, but close to the door the count and countess were still talking, for they were detained by ladies coming in. At length he joined them, while the gentlemen who were still on the garden steps stood on tiptoe so as to watch the scene. Nana, they thought, must have been chattering.
“The count hasn’t noticed him,” muttered Georges. “Look out! He’s turning round; there, it’s done!”