Vandeuvres gently nudged Lucy Stewart, who had a very spiteful tongue and a very fierce invention when once she was set going. That evening Mignon was driving her to exasperation.
“He would gladly be bottleholder, you know,” she remarked to the count. “He’s in hopes of repeating what he did with little Jonquier. You remember: Jonquier was Rose’s man, but he was sweet on big Laure. Now Mignon procured Laure for Jonquier and then came back arm in arm with him to Rose, as if he were a husband who had been allowed a little peccadillo. But this time the thing’s going to fail. Nana doesn’t give up the men who are lent her.”
“What ails Mignon that he should be looking at his wife in that severe way?” asked Vandeuvres.
He leaned forward and saw Rose growing exceedingly amorous toward Fauchery. This was the explanation of his neighbor’s wrath. He resumed laughingly:
“The devil, are you jealous?”
“Jealous!” said Lucy in a fury. “Good gracious, if Rose is wanting Léon I give him up willingly—for what he’s worth! That’s to say, for a bouquet a week and the rest to match! Look here, my dear boy, these theatrical trollops are all made the same way. Why, Rose cried with rage when she read Léon’s article on Nana; I know she did. So now, you understand, she must have an article, too, and she’s gaining it. As for me, I’m going to chuck Léon downstairs—you’ll see!”
She paused to say “Leoville” to the waiter standing behind her with his two bottles and then resumed in lowered tones:
“I don’t want to shout; it isn’t my style. But she’s a cocky slut all the same. If I were in her husband’s place I should lead her a lovely dance. Oh, she won’t be very happy over it. She doesn’t know my Fauchery: a dirty gent he is, too, palling up with women like that so as to get on in the world. Oh, a nice lot they are!”
Vandeuvres did his best to calm her down, but Bordenave, deserted by Rose and by Lucy, grew angry and cried out that they were letting Papa perish of hunger and thirst. This produced a fortunate diversion. Yet the supper was flagging; no one was eating now, though platefuls of cepes a’ l’italienne and pineapple fritters à la Pompadour were being mangled. The champagne, however, which had been drunk ever since the soup course, was beginning little by little to warm the guests into a state of nervous exaltation. They ended by paying less attention to decorum than before. The women began leaning on their elbows amid the disordered table arrangements, while the men, in order to breathe more easily, pushed their chairs back, and soon the black coats appeared buried between the light-colored bodices, and bare shoulders, half turned toward the table, began to gleam as soft as silk. It was too hot, and the glare of the candles above the table grew ever yellower and duller. Now and again, when a women bent forward, the back of her neck glowed golden under a rain of curls, and the glitter of a diamond clasp lit up a lofty chignon. There was a touch of fire in the passing jests, in the laughing eyes, in the sudden gleam of white teeth, in the reflection of the candelabra on the surface of a glass of champagne. The company joked at the tops of their voices, gesticulated, asked questions which no one answered and called to one another across the whole length of the room. But the loudest din was made by the waiters; they fancied themselves at home in the corridors of their parent restaurant; they jostled one another and served the ices and the dessert to an accompaniment of guttural exclamations.
“My children,” shouted Bordenave, “you know we’re playing tomorrow. Be careful! Not too much champagne!”