Vandeuvres did his best to calm her down, but Bordenave, deserted by Rose and by Lucy, grew angry and cried out that they were letting Papa perish of hunger and thirst.  This produced a fortunate diversion.  Yet the supper was flagging; no one was eating now, though platefuls of cepes a’ l’italienne and pineapple fritters a la Pompadour were being mangled.  The champagne, however, which had been drunk ever since the soup course, was beginning little by little to warm the guests into a state of nervous exaltation.  They ended by paying less attention to decorum than before.  The women began leaning on their elbows amid the disordered table arrangements, while the men, in order to breathe more easily, pushed their chairs back, and soon the black coats appeared buried between the light-colored bodices, and bare shoulders, half turned toward the table, began to gleam as soft as silk.  It was too hot, and the glare of the candles above the table grew ever yellower and duller.  Now and again, when a women bent forward, the back of her neck glowed golden under a rain of curls, and the glitter of a diamond clasp lit up a lofty chignon.  There was a touch of fire in the passing jests, in the laughing eyes, in the sudden gleam of white teeth, in the reflection of the candelabra on the surface of a glass of champagne.  The company joked at the tops of their voices, gesticulated, asked questions which no one answered and called to one another across the whole length of the room.  But the loudest din was made by the waiters; they fancied themselves at home in the corridors of their parent restaurant; they jostled one another and served the ices and the dessert to an accompaniment of guttural exclamations.

“My children,” shouted Bordenave, “you know we’re playing tomorrow.  Be careful!  Not too much champagne!”

“As far as I’m concerned,” said Foucarmont, “I’ve drunk every imaginable kind of wine in all the four quarters of the globe.  Extraordinary liquors some of ’em, containing alcohol enough to kill a corpse!  Well, and what d’you think?  Why, it never hurt me a bit.  I can’t make myself drunk.  I’ve tried and I can’t.”

He was very pale, very calm and collected, and he lolled back in his chair, drinking without cessation.

“Never mind that,” murmured Louise Violaine.  “Leave off; you’ve had enough.  It would be a funny business if I had to look after you the rest of the night.”

Such was her state of exaltation that Lucy Stewart’s cheeks were assuming a red, consumptive flush, while Rose Mignon with moist eyelids was growing excessively melting.  Tatan Nene, greatly astonished at the thought that she had overeaten herself, was laughing vaguely over her own stupidity.  The others, such as Blanche, Caroline, Simonne and Maria, were all talking at once and telling each other about their private affairs—­about a dispute with a coachman, a projected picnic and innumerable complex stories of lovers stolen or restored.  Meanwhile