“Just look at that,” whispered the young man, pointing to the door of the private room through which Muffat had vanished.

Both looked.  The door was quivering slightly; a breath of air seemed to be disturbing it, and at last, very, very slowly and without the least sound, it was shut to.  They exchanged a silent chuckle.  The count must be looking charmingly happy all alone in there!

“By the by,” she asked, “have you read Fauchery’s article about me?”

“Yes, ‘The Golden Fly,’” replied Daguenet; “I didn’t mention it to you as I was afraid of paining you.”

“Paining me—­why?  His article’s a very long one.”

She was flattered to think that the Figaro should concern itself about her person.  But failing the explanations of her hairdresser Francis, who had brought her the paper, she would not have understood that it was she who was in question.  Daguenet scrutinized her slyly, sneering in his chaffing way.  Well, well, since she was pleased, everybody else ought to be.

“By your leave!” shouted a waiter, holding a dish of iced cheese in both hands as he separated them.

Nana had stepped toward the little saloon where Muffat was waiting.

“Well, good-by!” continued Daguenet.  “Go and find your cuckold again.”

But she halted afresh.

“Why d’you call him cuckold?”

“Because he is a cuckold, by Jove!”

She came and leaned against the wall again; she was profoundly interested.

“Ah!” she said simply.

“What, d’you mean to say you didn’t know that?  Why, my dear girl, his wife’s Fauchery’s mistress.  It probably began in the country.  Some time ago, when I was coming here, Fauchery left me, and I suspect he’s got an assignation with her at his place tonight.  They’ve made up a story about a journey, I fancy.”

Overcome with surprise, Nana remained voiceless.

“I suspected it,” she said at last, slapping her leg.  “I guessed it by merely looking at her on the highroad that day.  To think of its being possible for an honest woman to deceive her husband, and with that blackguard Fauchery too!  He’ll teach her some pretty things!”

“Oh, it isn’t her trial trip,” muttered Daguenet wickedly.  “Perhaps she knows as much about it as he does.”

At this Nana gave vent to an indignant exclamation.

“Indeed she does!  What a nice world!  It’s too foul!”

“By your leave!” shouted a waiter, laden with bottles, as he separated them.

Daguenet drew her forward again and held her hand for a second or two.  He adopted his crystalline tone of voice, the voice with notes as sweet as those of a harmonica, which had gained him his success among the ladies of Nana’s type.

“Good-by, darling!  You know I love you always.”

She disengaged her hand from his, and while a thunder of shouts and bravos, which made the door in the saloon tremble again, almost drowned her words she smilingly remarked: