“In the middle, facing Nana!” was the cry.  “Bordenave in the middle!  He’ll be our president!”

Thereupon the ladies seated him in the middle.  But he needed a second chair for his leg, and two girls lifted it up and stretched it carefully out.  It wouldn’t matter; he would eat sideways.

“God blast it all!” he grumbled.  “We’re squashed all the same!  Ah, my kittens, Papa recommends himself to your tender care!”

He had Rose Mignon on his right and Lucy Stewart on his left hand, and they promised to take good care of him.  Everybody was now getting settled.  Count de Vandeuvres placed himself between Lucy and Clarisse; Fauchery between Rose Mignon and Caroline Hequet.  On the other side of the table Hector de la Faloise had rushed to get next Gaga, and that despite the calls of Clarisse opposite, while Mignon, who never deserted Steiner, was only separated from him by Blanche and had Tatan Nene on his left.  Then came Labordette and, finally, at the two ends of the table were irregular crowding groups of young men and of women, such as Simonne, Lea de Horn and Maria Blond.  It was in this region that Daguenet and Georges forgathered more warmly than ever while smilingly gazing at Nana.

Nevertheless, two people remained standing, and there was much joking about it.  The men offered seats on their knees.  Clarisse, who could not move her elbows, told Vandeuvres that she counted on him to feed her.  And then that Bordenave did just take up space with his chairs!  There was a final effort, and at last everybody was seated, but, as Mignon loudly remarked, they were confoundedly like herrings in a barrel.

“Thick asparagus soup a la comtesse, clear soup a la Deslignac,” murmured the waiters, carrying about platefuls in rear of the guests.

Bordenave was loudly recommending the thick soup when a shout arose, followed by protests and indignant exclamations.  The door had just opened, and three late arrivals, a woman and two men, had just come in.  Oh dear, no!  There was no space for them!  Nana, however, without leaving her chair, began screwing up her eyes in the effort to find out whether she knew them.  The woman was Louise Violaine, but she had never seen the men before.

“This gentleman, my dear,” said Vandeuvres, “is a friend of mine, a naval officer, Monsieur de Foucarmont by name.  I invited him.”

Foucarmont bowed and seemed very much at ease, for he added: 

“And I took leave to bring one of my friends with me.”

“Oh, it’s quite right, quite right!” said Nana.  “Sit down, pray.  Let’s see, you—­Clarisse—­push up a little.  You’re a good deal spread out down there.  That’s it—­where there’s a will—­”