“Monsieur le Marquis de Meuze ... one of our best friends ... and one who adores your book.”
He was a powerful old man with a majestic waistband and an aristocratic carriage. His white whiskers and curled up white mustache gave him the air of an Austrian general, for his was one of those heads which one readily fancies wearing a gold-braided cocked hat ornamented with a panache of green feathers. At the time of the financial smash of 1882, he had suffered from an attack of facial paralysis which had deprived him of the use of his left eyelid. It hung gray and lifeless and hid three quarters of his eye—this infirmity completed, like a glorious wound, his resemblance to an old warrior.
He multiplied protests of admiration. Then, following the immutable rule which prompts most people to conclude their compliments with an apology, he broached the true cause that had brought him to the master. He had once possessed a collection of cameos, a quite remarkable and exceptional collection. (As to the quality of the different pieces of which it had been composed, M. Raindal could consult several of his colleagues: the Count de Lastreins, of the Academy of Inscriptions; Baron Grollet, unattached member of the Beaux Arts, or the Viscount de Sernhac, of the Académie Française, all good friends or old comrades of the Marquis.) Well, one of the gems of that collection had been a cameo of Cleopatra. Alas! M. de Meuze had had to part with it, following financial losses. But he knew where it had gone; into the hands of a Jewish stock broker, a M. Stralhaus, and, if M. Raindal so desired, the Marquis fancied that he could obtain permission to examine that piece.
The master neither accepted nor refused. The conversation circled around the art of cameo-making, with a few comments on the closely-related subject of numismatics, of which the marquis was not altogether ignorant. Out of her element Mme. Chambannes piped softly at intervals her “very prettys” and “very charmings.” M. Chambannes, a tall, fair-haired man, with a faded complexion, a weak eye and fine and scanty hair, had joined her in the meantime. His thick cylindrical mustache was like a hinged cover, so closely did it fit his lips. Taken as a whole, his tired appearance might have been either that of a flabby scoundrel or of a pleasant young man worn out by his excesses.
All three surrounded M. Raindal, who replied to their chatter with assenting but weary smiles. He would have reproached himself had he rebuffed ever so slightly strangers who were so courteous for all their stupidity. Nevertheless, after a while he grew impatient with this strained politeness, the end of which he could not foresee. He was now equally bored by that old marquis with his verbose chatter, which was worthy of a second-hand dealer, his stories about cameos, sales, and bargains, and his quotations from catalogues.
At last reinforcements arrived to rescue him. Mme. Raindal returned with Thérèse and Boerzell. Then began new introductions. Immediately Mme. Chambannes briefly repeated her compliments. Mme. Raindal, blushing continually, stammered replies that were like so many apologies. Thérèse observed in silence; her virile glance judged it all mercilessly. Then Mme. Chambannes asked what their receiving day was and if she might have permission to call. There came a period of quiet when they merely talked for the sake of talking, of the ball, the orchestra and the dances. Of a sudden Mme. Chambannes called the marquis.
“M. de Meuze....”
“Madame?”
“A little secret. Will you permit me, ladies?”
Behind her spread-out fan she whispered a few words to M. de Meuze, who listened, bent towards her, his eyebrows arched in deep attention.