Then he shook hands with the other gentlemen, while La Faloise, in his discomfiture, felt rather uncertain whether he had said something funny.  The men chatted.  Since the races the banker and Foucarmont had formed part of the set in the Avenue de Villiers.  Nana was going on much better, and every evening the count came and asked how she did.  Meanwhile Fauchery, though he listened, seemed preoccupied, for during a quarrel that morning Rose had roundly confessed to the sending of the letter.  Oh yes, he might present himself at his great lady’s house; he would be well received!  After long hesitation he had come despite everything—­out of sheer courage.  But La Faloise’s imbecile pleasantry had upset him in spite of his apparent tranquillity.

“What’s the matter?” asked Philippe.  “You seem in trouble.”

“I do?  Not at all.  I’ve been working:  that’s why I came so late.”

Then coldly, in one of those heroic moods which, although unnoticed, are wont to solve the vulgar tragedies of existence: 

“All the same, I haven’t made my bow to our hosts.  One must be civil.”

He even ventured on a joke, for he turned to La Faloise and said: 

“Eh, you idiot?”

And with that he pushed his way through the crowd.  The valet’s full voice was no longer shouting out names, but close to the door the count and countess were still talking, for they were detained by ladies coming in.  At length he joined them, while the gentlemen who were still on the garden steps stood on tiptoe so as to watch the scene.  Nana, they thought, must have been chattering.

“The count hasn’t noticed him,” muttered Georges.  “Look out!  He’s turning round; there, it’s done!”

The band had again taken up the waltz in the Blonde Venus.  Fauchery had begun by bowing to the countess, who was still smiling in ecstatic serenity.  After which he had stood motionless a moment, waiting very calmly behind the count’s back.  That evening the count’s deportment was one of lofty gravity:  he held his head high, as became the official and the great dignitary.  And when at last he lowered his gaze in the direction of the journalist he seemed still further to emphasize the majesty of his attitude.  For some seconds the two men looked at one another.  It was Fauchery who first stretched out his hand.  Muffat gave him his.  Their hands remained clasped, and the Countess Sabine with downcast eyes stood smiling before them, while the waltz continually beat out its mocking, vagabond rhythm.

“But the thing’s going on wheels!” said Steiner.

“Are their hands glued together?” asked Foucarmont, surprised at this prolonged clasp.  A memory he could not forget brought a faint glow to Fanchery’s pale cheeks, and in his mind’s eye he saw the property room bathed in greenish twilight and filled with dusty bric-a-brac.  And Muffat was there, eggcup in hand, making a clever use of his suspicions.  At this moment Muffat was no longer suspicious, and the last vestige of his dignity was crumbling in ruin.  Fauchery’s fears were assuaged, and when he saw the frank gaiety of the countess he was seized with a desire to laugh.  The thing struck him as comic.