Zozé stepped out rapidly to meet them. She wore a loose dress of pink silk with subdued flowered-work. It gave her the silhouette of a Spanish princess. Chambannes followed her; he was perhaps smiling under the mystery of his huge blonde mustache. Then began the series of introductions.
Ladies first: little Mme. Pums, in a tight-fitting black robe with gold spangles, which made her plump face appear even fresher, whiter by contrast and gave added zest to her red hair; Mme. de Marquesse, a tall blonde with a horsy jaw, whose mauve crêpe dress showed, revealed about the hips, the massive bones of a Republic or a Liberty; Mme. Silberschmidt, a thin dark woman with the face of a sick hen; Mme. Herschstein, more angular and haughty in her white satin corsage than a lady of ancient lineage. Then came the men, one by one, as they happened. They bowed low; all gave deferential yet curious looks; all shook hands eagerly and yet with shyness; they spoke in respectful but unfinished sentences, as one does in the presence of a foreign potentate with whose etiquette and language one is not very well acquainted.
Pums, the dean of the naturalized ones, was introduced last. Small, neat, yellow-faced, dressed with sober correctness—what struck one most in his physiognomy was not his Viennese stockbroker type, nor his thick black mustache, nor the gray about his temples; it was the projection of his two big light chocolate eyes, so keen in seeing things, so ingenuous and so languorous that, but for a flicker of sly archness at the bottom of them, one might have thought them the eyes of a good little boy surprised at seeing so many people. He spoke a decent French, with not more than the suspicion of a Teutonic accent: a French that was, like himself, naturalized. He was the only one who succeeded in reaching the end of his compliment.
M. Raindal had no time to thank him; they were passing into the dining-room.
Mme. Chambannes sat between the master and the Marquis de Meuze. Her husband faced her, with Mme. Raindal to his right and Mme. de Marquesse on the left. The neighbors of Thérèse were Gerald and Mazuccio; the latter a sort of brown faun, who droned his with the fury of a Venetian mosquito. The rest of the company sat round the table, at seats marked by cards bearing their names. The soup was served in attentive silence.
They were obviously waiting for the master to say something important and unusual; the ladies were especially anxious to hear M. Raindal whom they imagined, after his Life of Cleopatra, to be a famous raconteur who would surely deliver some “stiff ones” during the dinner.
They were soon undeceived. He was really not very amusing, this M. Raindal, nor very original, with his fat, flabby neck, his hands that hung loose, his manners of an ill at ease ex-prefect—and his almost inaudible voice. Moreover, they were not missing much. Details on the climate of Egypt, the means of transportation, the favorable time of the year for traveling in that region—I ask you, would Baedeker or the Joanne guide give one as much?
Soon, M. Raindal had but two left to listen to him, the Marquis and Mme. Chambannes who was never tired of asking questions.
To tell the truth, he did not feel in the mood. It was not that he felt intimidated by Mme. Chambannes’ fervent glances, or the caressing roll of her r’s which made her voice softly imperious. On the contrary, he was grateful to her for not wearing a lower dress; he found her most graceful in that corsage which barely showed a modest opening and exposed a small square of skin with her fine neck free from jewelry. The surrounding sumptuousness embarrassed him much more than the tender glances of the young woman. He had written a whole chapter on the Pomp of Cleopatra; he had not winced at the gems, the gold, the incense and all the sumptuousness of the Inimitable Life; but he now remained as one dazed before the reality of a magnificence that was much inferior to it. The profusion of flowers running in garlands all over the table, the light shining in the cut glass, the dainty silver, the shining elegance of the guests were to him as so many sharp points of brilliancy that caught his eye and his thoughts. He was, moreover, further distracted by a noise that resembled the purring of an engine, the schh, the harrh, the horrh and the pff which were now fusing from the group of the Silberschmidts, the Herschsteins and the Pums, who were massed on one side of the table.
They had evidently made themselves at home; their tongues wagged, they used their native language, which sounded like a gargle. The French language? Why, that was a dialect for official use, good enough when one had to be polite, for social life.... But why should they place such a check upon themselves when they talked business, when it came to serious or intimate matters? How could they do it, anyhow? Was not this native language of theirs which sprang to their lips with a naïve instinctive vigor stronger than anything else, stronger than any decree or any oath of allegiance? You should have seen the jeering wink that accompanied Pums’ inquiries concerning the krankheit (illness) of the Sultan and the no less knowing look in the eyes of Herschstein when he replied. That indisposition of the Sultan had proved devilishly successful; it was Herschstei idea, had been sent from Paris to Vienna, re-telegraphed from Vienna to Paris, and had upset the Bourse throughout the afternoon. Turkish stocks had tumbled down, 3 francs, 6 francs, 10 francs at a time and the panic had spread to the French rent! Result: about 100,000 francs for each of the active members of the black band and a paltry 25,000 for Pums, who was only an ally, a sort of honorary accomplice. However, he was not dissatisfied with his share and even wished to pay back Herschstein who explained to him the new plans of the Bank of Galicia concerning certain gold mines. That scheme consisted in forming a syndicate which would be named an Investigating Society and would glean from the market the least suspicious mining bonds. Moreover, it was an easy operation; they had first only to depreciate these values by means of alarming news and then send them soaring up to the highest point by means of optimistic news. The art of the market at its infancy! The infallible process. Young Burzig who, being a British subject, had been ceaselessly flirting in English with pretty Mme. Pums, brusquely returned to the German of his family in order to take part in the discussion and the projects of the group. They were discussing with de Marquesse what bonds they could choose, what mines would be drained in the course of the operation. English or Dutch names, more blazing than tiaras, were quoted: the Pink Star of South Africa, the Transvaal Sun, the Source of the Carbuncles....