“Ah yes, some insect stung me there!”

The Marquis de Chouard had cast a sidelong glance at the little red place.  Muffat, too, looked at Georges.  The company was finishing lunch and planning various excursions.  Fauchery was growing increasingly excited with the Countess Sabine’s laughter.  As he was passing her a dish of fruit their hands touched, and for one second she looked at him with eyes so full of dark meaning that he once more thought of the secret which had been communicated to him one evening after an uproarious dinner.  Then, too, she was no longer the same woman.  Something was more pronounced than of old, and her gray foulard gown which fitted loosely over her shoulders added a touch of license to her delicate, high-strung elegance.

When they rose from the table Daguenet remained behind with Fauchery in order to impart to him the following crude witticism about Estelle:  “A nice broomstick that to shove into a man’s hands!” Nevertheless, he grew serious when the journalist told him the amount she was worth in the way of dowry.

“Four hundred thousand francs.”

“And the mother?” queried Fauchery.  “She’s all right, eh?”

“Oh, she’ll work the oracle!  But it’s no go, my dear man!”

“Bah!  How are we to know?  We must wait and see.”

It was impossible to go out that day, for the rain was still falling in heavy showers.  Georges had made haste to disappear from the scene and had double-locked his door.  These gentlemen avoided mutual explanations, though they were none of them deceived as to the reasons which had brought them together.  Vandeuvres, who had had a very bad time at play, had really conceived the notion of lying fallow for a season, and he was counting on Nana’s presence in the neighborhood as a safeguard against excessive boredom.  Fauchery had taken advantage of the holidays granted him by Rose, who just then was extremely busy.  He was thinking of discussing a second notice with Nana, in case country air should render them reciprocally affectionate.  Daguenet, who had been just a little sulky with her since Steiner had come upon the scene, was dreaming of resuming the old connection or at least of snatching some delightful opportunities if occasion offered.  As to the Marquis de Chouard, he was watching for times and seasons.  But among all those men who were busy following in the tracks of Venus—­a Venus with the rouge scarce washed from her cheeks—­Muffat was at once the most ardent and the most tortured by the novel sensations of desire and fear and anger warring in his anguished members.  A formal promise had been made him; Nana was awaiting him.  Why then had she taken her departure two days sooner than was expected?