At that moment, Raymond, whom I supposed to have left the house, appeared at the door of the salon and called out angrily:
“My hat, Madame Vauvert, I want my hat, where is it? It’s a lamentable fact that one can never find one’s things in your house.”
“Pardi! your hat isn’t lost.—Mon Dieu! I don’t see my cat! I put her on a chair by the fireplace. Why did anyone move her—poor Moumoute? The door of the landing is often open; she’s gone out, and she’ll be stolen!—Moumoute! Moumoute!”
The dancing continued, no heed being paid to Madame Vauvert’s lamentations and Raymond’s demands; the dancers were determined to compensate themselves, by a moment’s enjoyment, for several hours of ennui; and those who were afraid that their turn might not come took the precaution to move back the hands of the clock while Vauvert’s back was turned and his wife was looking for her cat.
I invited Madame de Marsan, and after much ceremony she consented to dance with me.
“What an extraordinary house!” she said to me.
“I find it delightful, since I have met you here.”
“But as it is probable that you will not meet me here again, and as I desire to see you again, I trust, monsieur, that you will do me the honor of coming to listen to a little music at my house.”
I accepted, as may be imagined; and after the dance was over, I prowled about the husband, with whom I entered into conversation. I talked of speculation, houses, châteaux, and the stock market with him; I took pains, without ostentation, to mention my name, to speak of my family and my means. In any other house, I should not have done so; but in such a mixed assemblage, I was not anxious that he should place me on a level with people, who, although very estimable no doubt, were nothing more than that; and in the opinion of many men that is not sufficient distinction. On the whole, I was satisfied that Monsieur de Marsan found me rather agreeable; it is so easy to catch people by the sensitive spot—that is to say, when they have one.
When young women begin to dance, it is much the same as when a poet begins to recite his verses: there is no reason why they should ever stop. But Madame Vauvert, thinking that they were making too much noise, and afraid of angering her landlord, had already said several times: