Vandeuvres smiled a discreet smile.  He, too, seemed to have his doubts as to the exact nature of the Marquis de Chouard’s duties.  Indeed, he had been thinking of a pretty woman whom the marquis occasionally took into the country with him.  Perhaps they could get her too.

In the meantime Fauchery decided that the moment had come in which to risk giving Count Muff his invitation.  The evening, in fact, was drawing to a close.

“Are you serious?” asked Vandeuvres, who thought a joke was intended.

“Extremely serious.  If I don’t execute my commission she’ll tear my eyes out.  It’s a case of landing her fish, you know.”

“Well then, I’ll help you, dear boy.”

Eleven o’clock struck.  Assisted by her daughter, the countess was pouring out the tea, and as hardly any guests save intimate friends had come, the cups and the platefuls of little cakes were being circulated without ceremony.  Even the ladies did not leave their armchairs in front of the fire and sat sipping their tea and nibbling cakes which they held between their finger tips.  From music the talk had declined to purveyors.  Boissier was the only person for sweetmeats and Catherine for ices.  Mme Chantereau, however, was all for Latinville.  Speech grew more and more indolent, and a sense of lassitude was lulling the room to sleep.  Steiner had once more set himself secretly to undermine the deputy, whom he held in a state of blockade in the corner of a settee.  M. Venot, whose teeth must have been ruined by sweet things, was eating little dry cakes, one after the other, with a small nibbling sound suggestive of a mouse, while the chief clerk, his nose in a teacup, seemed never to be going to finish its contents.  As to the countess, she went in a leisurely way from one guest to another, never pressing them, indeed, only pausing a second or two before the gentlemen whom she viewed with an air of dumb interrogation before she smiled and passed on.  The great fire had flushed all her face, and she looked as if she were the sister of her daughter, who appeared so withered and ungainly at her side.  When she drew near Fauchery, who was chatting with her husband and Vandeuvres, she noticed that they grew suddenly silent; accordingly she did not stop but handed the cup of tea she was offering to Georges Hugon beyond them.

“It’s a lady who desires your company at supper,” the journalist gaily continued, addressing Count Muffat.

The last-named, whose face had worn its gray look all the evening, seemed very much surprised.  What lady was it?

“Oh, Nana!” said Vandeuvres, by way of forcing the invitation.

The count became more grave than before.  His eyelids trembled just perceptibly, while a look of discomfort, such as headache produces, hovered for a moment athwart his forehead.

“But I’m not acquainted with that lady,” he murmured.

“Come, come, you went to her house,” remarked Vandeuvres.