M. Raindal turned round. Mme. Chambannes was calling him away to offer him some coffee.
At the other end of the drawing-room little Mme. Pums and tall Mme. de Marquesse were holding each other by the waist and exchanged joyful secrets concerning the use they had made of their afternoon. Their outward contrast brought out all the more the best points of each. One guessed that they shared the same tastes and the same aptitudes, everything they needed to take part in full agreement in some party of four, especially with two pleasant men of corresponding height.
Still linked together they marched through the room. Mme. de Marquesse pulled aside the curtain of the smoking-room; joyful exclamations greeted the graceful pair. They went in altogether and the shouts increased. These gentlemen were not ungrateful.
The conversation dragged until their return. Mme. Chambannes tried to make small talk with Thérèse and Mme. Raindal, while Mme. Herschstein paid compliments to the master. But the subjects of conversation were getting scarce. She remarked on the late hours of modern dinners and gave out some prognostications concerning the forthcoming winter; and then Zozé began to feel ill at ease. Great Heavens! What could she talk about? Dresses! She must not think of it! Poor women, they were rather “trussed up!” Theaters? They had admitted that they had not been to one for two years. Zozé tried; she groped for ideas; the gray eyes of Thérèse looked sternly into hers and put her further out of countenance. She was very intelligent perhaps, this Mlle. Raindal, but she was not easy to get on with.... “No go in her,” as Gerald would declare. Zozé was on the verge of forgiving him his brutal silence during the dinner.
At last the men returned, with the exception of the marquis, whose apologies George Chambannes offered to M. Raindal. As a rule, that was the hour for smutty stories. They would go by twos to whisper in the dark corners; the old people usually remained in sight in the center of the room, peacefully discussing aloud their money matters or their infirmities.
The presence of the Raindal family probably made the guests feel ill at ease, for they did not attempt their usual customary maneuver. Two of them only, Givonne the painter of tambourines, and little Mme. Pums, who had been last in leaving the smoking-room, dared to maintain the tradition. They settled down in a window corner. With the exact expression of an English commercial traveler it seemed, at a distance, as if Givonne was praising to Mme. Pums some article which, he promised, would give her complete satisfaction.
M. Raindal examined them for a moment with a mechanical benevolence. But he felt his eyelids becoming heavy. The abundant meal or the efforts to recall his memories which he had made during the dinner made him feel very tired. To avoid speaking he made free use of affable smiles.
The entrance of Jean Bunel, whom Mme. Chambannes brought towards him, gave him a pretext to rise.
“M. Jean Bunel, whose beautiful novels sure you have read,” Zozé said in presenting him.
“To be sure.... Delighted, my dear confrère!” said M. Raindal warmly, as he pressed the hand of Bunel, whose name he was nevertheless hearing for the first time.