“You bloody clumsy lot!” cried Nana.

The footman was mistaken enough to try and explain that the fruit had not been firmly piled up.  Zoe had disarranged it by taking out some oranges.

“Then it’s Zoe that’s the goose!” said Nana.

“Madame—­” murmured the lady’s maid in an injured tone.

Straightway Madame rose to her feet, and in a sharp voice and with royally authoritative gesture: 

“We’ve had enough of this, haven’t we?  Leave the room, all of you!  We don’t want you any longer!”

This summary procedure calmed her down, and she was forthwith all sweetness and amiability.  The dessert proved charming, and the gentlemen grew quite merry waiting on themselves.  But Satin, having peeled a pear, came and ate it behind her darling, leaning on her shoulder the while and whispering sundry little remarks in her ear, at which they both laughed very loudly.  By and by she wanted to share her last piece of pear with Nana and presented it to her between her teeth.  Whereupon there was a great nibbling of lips, and the pear was finished amid kisses.  At this there was a burst of comic protest from the gentlemen, Philippe shouting to them to take it easy and Vandeuvres asking if one ought to leave the room.  Georges, meanwhile, had come and put his arm round Satin’s waist and had brought her back to her seat.

“How silly of you!” said Nana.  “You’re making her blush, the poor, darling duck.  Never mind, dear girl, let them chaff.  It’s our own little private affair.”

And turning to Muffat, who was watching them with his serious expression: 

“Isn’t it, my friend?”

“Yes, certainly,” he murmured with a slow nod of approval.

He no longer protested now.  And so amid that company of gentlemen with the great names and the old, upright traditions, the two women sat face to face, exchanging tender glances, conquering, reigning, in tranquil defiance of the laws of sex, in open contempt for the male portion of the community.  The gentlemen burst into applause.

The company went upstairs to take coffee in the little drawing room, where a couple of lamps cast a soft glow over the rosy hangings and the lacquer and old gold of the knickknacks.  At that hour of the evening the light played discreetly over coffers, bronzes and china, lighting up silver or ivory inlaid work, bringing into view the polished contours of a carved stick and gleaming over a panel with glossy silky reflections.  The fire, which had been burning since the afternoon, was dying out in glowing embers.  It was very warm—­the air behind the curtains and hangings was languid with warmth.  The room was full of Nana’s intimate existence:  a pair of gloves, a fallen handkerchief, an open book, lay scattered about, and their owner seemed present in careless attire with that well-known odor of violets and that species of untidiness which became her in her character of good-natured courtesan and had such a charming effect among all those rich surroundings.  The very armchairs, which were as wide as beds, and the sofas, which were as deep as alcoves, invited to slumber oblivious of the flight of time and to tender whispers in shadowy corners.