“Certainly, I shall be most happy.  Pray come tomorrow, Monsieur Fauchery.”

Lucy Stewart heard this invitation given while she was talking with Steiner and Blanche and, raising her voice, she remarked to the banker: 

“It’s a mania they’ve all of them got.  One of them even went so far as to steal my dog.  Now, dear boy, am I to blame if you chuck her?”

Rose turned round.  She was very pale and gazed fixedly at Steiner as she sipped her coffee.  And then all the concentrated anger she felt at his abandonment of her flamed out in her eyes.  She saw more clearly than Mignon; it was stupid in him to have wished to begin the Jonquier ruse a second time—­those dodgers never succeeded twice running.  Well, so much the worse for him!  She would have Fauchery!  She had been getting enamored of him since the beginning of supper, and if Mignon was not pleased it would teach him greater wisdom!

“You are not going to fight?” said Vandeuvres, coming over to Lucy Stewart.

“No, don’t be afraid of that!  Only she must mind and keep quiet, or I let the cat out of the bag!”

Then signing imperiously to Fauchery: 

“I’ve got your slippers at home, my little man.  I’ll get them taken to your porter’s lodge for you tomorrow.”

He wanted to joke about it, but she swept off, looking like a queen.  Clarisse, who had propped herself against a wall in order to drink a quiet glass of kirsch, was seen to shrug her shoulders.  A pleasant business for a man!  Wasn’t it true that the moment two women were together in the presence of their lovers their first idea was to do one another out of them?  It was a law of nature!  As to herself, why, in heaven’s name, if she had wanted to she would have torn out Gaga’s eyes on Hector’s account!  But la, she despised him!  Then as La Faloise passed by, she contented herself by remarking to him: 

“Listen, my friend, you like ’em well advanced, you do!  You don’t want ’em ripe; you want ’em mildewed!”

La Faloise seemed much annoyed and not a little anxious.  Seeing Clarisse making game of him, he grew suspicious of her.

“No humbug, I say,” he muttered.  “You’ve taken my handkerchief.  Well then, give it back!”

“He’s dreeing us with that handkerchief of his!” she cried.  “Why, you ass, why should I have taken it from you?”

“Why should you?” he said suspiciously.  “Why, that you may send it to my people and compromise me.”

In the meantime Foucarmont was diligently attacking the liqueurs.  He continued to gaze sneeringly at Labordette, who was drinking his coffee in the midst of the ladies.  And occasionally he gave vent to fragmentary assertions, as thus:  “He’s the son of a horse dealer; some say the illegitimate child of a countess.  Never a penny of income, yet always got twenty-five louis in his pocket!  Footboy to the ladies of the town!  A big lubber, who never goes with any of ’em!  Never, never, never!” he repeated, growing furious.  “No, by Jove!  I must box his ears.”