“Yes,” said Gerard, “I heard this morning that ‘Polyeucte’ wouldn’t get its turn till April at the earliest.”
At this Camille, who had hitherto remained silent, watching the young Count and seeking to win him back, turned her glittering eyes upon her father and mother. It was a question of that revival in which Silviane was so stubbornly determined to make her debut. However, the Baron and the Baroness evinced perfect serenity, having long been acquainted with all that concerned each other. Moreover Eve was too much occupied with her own passion to think of anything else; and the Baron too busy with the fresh application which he intended to make in tempestuous fashion at the Ministry of Fine Arts, so as to wrest Silviane’s engagement from those in office. He contented himself with saying: “How would you have them revive pieces at the Comedie! They have no actresses left there.”
“Oh, by the way,” the Baroness on her side simply remarked, “yesterday, in that play at the Vaudeville, Delphine Vignot wore such an exquisite gown. She’s the only one too who knows how to arrange her hair.”
Thereupon Duthil, in somewhat veiled language, began to relate a story about Delphine and a well-known senator. And then came another scandal, the sudden and almost suspicious death of a lady friend of the Duvillards’; whereupon the General, without any transition, broke in to relieve his bitter feelings by denouncing the idiotic manner in which the army was nowadays organised. Meantime the old Bordeaux glittered like ruby blood in the delicate crystal glasses. A truffled fillet of venison had just cast its somewhat sharp scent amidst the dying perfume of the roses, when some asparagus made its appearance, a primeur which once had been so rare but which no longer caused any astonishment.
“Nowadays we get it all through the winter,” said the Baron with a gesture of disenchantment.
“And so,” asked Gerard at the same moment, “the Princess de Harn’s matinee is for this afternoon?”
Camille quickly intervened. “Yes, this afternoon. Shall you go?”
“No, I don’t think so, I shan’t be able,” replied the young man in embarrassment.
“Ah! that little Princess, she’s really deranged you know,” exclaimed Duthil. “You are aware that she calls herself a widow? But the truth, it seems, is that her husband, a real Prince, connected with a royal house and very handsome, is travelling about the world in the company of a singer. She with her vicious urchin-like face preferred to come and reign in Paris, in that mansion of the Avenue Hoche, which is certainly the most extraordinary Noah’s ark imaginable, with its swarming of cosmopolitan society indulging in every extravagance!”
“Be quiet, you malicious fellow,” the Baroness gently interrupted. “We, here, are very fond of Rosemonde, who is a charming woman.”