They crowded more tightly than ever, and Foucarmont and Louise were given a little stretch of table, but the friend had to sit at some distance from his plate and ate his supper through dint of making a long arm between his neighbors’ shoulders.  The waiters took away the soup plates and circulated rissoles of young rabbit with truffles and “niokys” and powdered cheese.  Bordenave agitated the whole table with the announcement that at one moment he had had the idea of bringing with him Prulliere, Fontan and old Bosc.  At this Nana looked sedate and remarked dryly that she would have given them a pretty reception.  Had she wanted colleagues, she would certainly have undertaken to ask them herself.  No, no, she wouldn’t have third-rate play actors.  Old Bosc was always drunk; Prulliere was fond of spitting too much, and as to Fontan, he made himself unbearable in society with his loud voice and his stupid doings.  Then, you know, third-rate play actors were always out of place when they found themselves in the society of gentlemen such as those around her.

“Yes, yes, it’s true,” Mignon declared.

All round the table the gentlemen in question looked unimpeachable in the extreme, what with their evening dress and their pale features, the natural distinction of which was still further refined by fatigue.  The old gentleman was as deliberate in his movements and wore as subtle a smile as though he were presiding over a diplomatic congress, and Vandeuvres, with his exquisite politeness toward the ladies next to him, seemed to be at one of the Countess Muffat’s receptions.  That very morning Nana had been remarking to her aunt that in the matter of men one could not have done better—­they were all either wellborn or wealthy, in fact, quite the thing.  And as to the ladies, they were behaving admirably.  Some of them, such as Blanche, Lea and Louise, had come in low dresses, but Gaga’s only was perhaps a little too low, the more so because at her age she would have done well not to show her neck at all.  Now that the company were finally settled the laughter and the light jests began to fail.  Georges was under the impression that he had assisted at merrier dinner parties among the good folks of Orleans.  There was scarcely any conversation.  The men, not being mutually acquainted, stared at one another, while the women sat quite quiet, and it was this which especially surprised Georges.  He thought them all smugs—­he had been under the impression that everybody would begin kissing at once.

The third course, consisting of a Rhine carp a la Chambord and a saddle of venison a l’anglaise, was being served when Blanche remarked aloud: 

“Lucy, my dear, I met your Ollivier on Sunday.  How he’s grown!”

“Dear me, yes!  He’s eighteen,” replied Lucy.  “It doesn’t make me feel any younger.  He went back to his school yesterday.”