Fanny Dorville interceded in vain for the victim; the inexorable duenna had already seized a fourth glass, and the final catastrophe would have been infallibly brought about, had not providence intervened in the person of the call-boy, who, thrusting his head through the half-open doorway, cried, shrilly:
“Ladies, they are about to begin!”
The two actresses hastened away, escorted by Andre Desvanneaux, a modern Tartufe, who, though married, was seen everywhere, as much at home behind the scenes as in church.
Coffee and liqueurs were then served in a salon adjoining the large dining-room, which gave the effect of a private club-room to this part of the restaurant.
Cigars were lighted, and conversation soon turned on feminine charms and the performances of various horses, particularly those of Franc-Comtois, the winner of the military steeplechase. This animal was one of the products of the Prerolles stud, and was ordinary enough on flat ground, but a jumper of the first rank.
At last the clock struck the half hour after eleven, and some of the guests had already manifested their intention to depart, when Paul Landry, who had been rather silent until then, said, carelessly:
“You expect to sleep to-night in Paris, no doubt, Monsieur de Prerolles?”
“Oh, no,” Henri replied, “I am on duty this week, and am obliged to return to Vincennes early in the morning. So I shall stay here until it is time for me to go.”
“In that case, might we not have a game of cards?” proposed Captain Constantin Lenaieff, military attache to the suite of the Russian ambassador.
“As you please,” said Henri.