They blinked after emerging from the mysterious shadows of the garden.  Then they pointed out to one another the Marquis de Chouard where he stood apart, his tall figure towering over the bare shoulders which surrounded him.  His face was pale and very stern, and beneath its crown of scant white hair it wore an expression of lofty dignity.  Scandalized by Count Muffat’s conduct, he had publicly broken off all intercourse with him and was by way of never again setting foot in the house.  If he had consented to put in an appearance that evening it was because his granddaughter had begged him to.  But he disapproved of her marriage and had inveighed indignantly against the way in which the government classes were being disorganized by the shameful compromises engendered by modern debauchery.

“Ah, it’s the end of all things,” Mme du Joncquoy whispered in Mme Chantereau’s ear as she sat near the fireplace.  “That bad woman has bewitched the unfortunate man.  And to think we once knew him such a true believer, such a noblehearted gentleman!”

“It appears he is ruining himself,” continued Mme Chantereau.  “My husband has had a bill of his in his hands.  At present he’s living in that house in the Avenue de Villiers; all Paris is talking about it.  Good heavens!  I don’t make excuses for Sabine, but you must admit that he gives her infinite cause of complaint, and, dear me, if she throws money out of the window, too—­”

“She does not only throw money,” interrupted the other.  “In fact, between them, there’s no knowing where they’ll stop; they’ll end in the mire, my dear.”

But just then a soft voice interrupted them.  It was M. Venot, and he had come and seated himself behind them, as though anxious to disappear from view.  Bending forward, he murmured: 

“Why despair?  God manifests Himself when all seems lost.”

He was assisting peacefully at the downfall of the house which he erewhile governed.  Since his stay at Les Fondettes he had been allowing the madness to increase, for he was very clearly aware of his own powerlessness.  He had, indeed, accepted the whole position—­the count’s wild passion for Nana, Fauchery’s presence, even Estelle’s marriage with Daguenet.  What did these things matter?  He even became more supple and mysterious, for he nursed a hope of being able to gain the same mastery over the young as over the disunited couple, and he knew that great disorders lead to great conversions.  Providence would have its opportunity.

“Our friend,” he continued in a low voice, “is always animated by the best religious sentiments.  He has given me the sweetest proofs of this.”

“Well,” said Mme du Joncquoy, “he ought first to have made it up with his wife.”

“Doubtless.  At this moment I have hopes that the reconciliation will be shortly effected.”

Whereupon the two old ladies questioned him.

But he grew very humble again.  “Heaven,” he said, “must be left to act.”  His whole desire in bringing the count and the countess together again was to avoid a public scandal, for religion tolerated many faults when the proprieties were respected.