De Nani listened to the random conversation as he ate, or at least seemed to; a dull flush was apparent under the paint on his face. Each guest had his own attendant, and the service was conducted with the precision of mechanism. The glass of the Marquis was always full, yet he was continually emptying it; like the old gentleman at M. de Richelieu’s feast, he felt his teeth growing again, and for a little while, under the influence of the powerful Rhone wines, his youth seemed to return.
“Talking of art,” said Gaillard, fingering the stem of his wineglass delicately and turning to Toto, “a rumor reached me to-day through De Brie, the editor of the Boulevard—you know De Brie? It was to the effect that our host——”
“Yes.”
“That our host,” continued Gaillard, turning to the others, “wearied by the incapacity of the two salons to appreciate genius——”
“To appreciate genius,” echoed Struve.
“Is about to found an art school.”
De Nani leaned back in his chair and slipped a button of his waistcoat, as if to give room for the sycophant to ramp.
“And who,” said he, “would be fitter to found an art school than our host—ahu!—who, may I ask, M. Veillard?”
“Gaillard.”
“Maillard—than our illustrious host, ahu! I have seen his works, ventre St. Gris! Ahu! I am not a man of yesterday, M. Baillard; my memory carries me back to the time before women wore hoops.”