The distant music of Fahrbach’s polkas or Strauss’s waltzes seemed like an added accompaniment that mocked the sadness of her unwholesome dream.

“And yet, in all that crowd of women who salute her, there are some who are jealous of her!  Many envy her!” thought Guy, who was looking on.

Adrienne did not look at Vaudrey.  She was afraid that if her eyes met her husband’s fixed on her own, she would lose her sang-froid and suddenly burst into sobs, there before the guests.  That would have been ridiculous.  This blonde, so feebly gentle, isolated herself, therefore, with surprising determination and seemed to see nothing save her own thought, the unique thought:  “Be strong.  You shall weep at your ease when you are alone, far away from these people, far away from this crowd, alone with yourself, entirely alone, entirely alone!”

Vaudrey was very pale, but carried away, in spite of himself, by the joy which he felt in receiving all the illustrious and powerful men of the state, foreign ambassadors, the Presidents of the Senate and the Chamber, the ministers, his colleagues, deputies, wealthy financiers, renowned publicists, in fact, everything that counts and has a name in Paris,—­this minister, happy to see the crowd running to him, at his house, bowing, paying homage to him, for a moment forgot the crushing events of that day, the sudden thunderbolt falling on him and perhaps, as he had said, crushing his hearthstone.

He no longer thought of anything but what he saw:  salutations, bowed heads, inclinations that succeeded each other with the regularity of a clock, that succession of homages to the little Grenoble advocate, now become Prime Minister.

Oblivious of everything else, he had lost the recollection of his mistress, and he suddenly grew pale and looked instinctively with terror at Adrienne, who was as pale as a corpse.—­A visitor had just been announced by the usher, in his metallic voice, and the name that he cried mechanically, as he had uttered all the others, echoed there like an insult.

Guy de Lissac shook through his entire frame, as he too heard it.

“Monsieur Simon Kayser and Mademoiselle Kayser!”—­cried the usher.

Still another name rang out from that clarion voice: 

“Monsieur le Duc de Rosas!”

Neither Vaudrey nor Adrienne heard this name.  Sulpice felt urged to rush toward Marianne to entreat her to leave.  It is true, he had invited her.  In spite of Jouvenet who knew all, and in spite of so many others who suspected the truth, she desired to be present at that fete at the ministry and to show herself to all.  Vaudrey had warned her, however.  He had written to her a few hours before, entreating her, nay, almost commanding, her, not to come, and she was there.  She entered, advancing with head erect, leaning on the arm of her uncle, his white cravat hidden by his artist’s beard and on his lips a disdainful smile.