Lissac, with his eyeglass fixed, and ceremoniously carrying his flattened opera-hat, advanced toward the salon, amid the greedy curiosity of the guests who contemplated the exquisite grace of the lovely girl as if they were inhaling its charm.

Madame Marsy stood at the entrance of the salon, looking attractive in a toilet of black silk which heightened her fair beauty, and, with extended hands, smilingly greeted all her guests, while the charming Madame Gerson, refined and tactful, aided her in receiving.

Sabine appeared perfectly charmed on perceiving Marianne.  She had felt the influence formerly of this ready, keen and daring intelligence.  She troubled herself but little about Marianne’s past.  Kayser’s niece was received everywhere, and had not Kayser decided to accompany her?  He followed in the rear of the young girl.  People had not observed him.  He chatted with a man about sixty years old, with a white beard and very gentle eyes who listened to him good-naturedly while thinking perhaps of something else.

“Ah! my old Ramel, how glad I am to see you!” he said with theatrical effusion.

“It is a fact that we rarely see each other.  What has become of you, Kayser?”

“I?  I work.  I protest, you know, I have never compromised—­Never—­The dignity of art—­”

Their voices were drowned by the hubbub of the first salon, already filled with guests; Sabine meanwhile took Marianne, whom Lissac surrendered, and led her toward a larger salon with red decorations, wherein the chairs were drawn up in lines before an empty space, forming, thanks to the voluminous folds of the curtains, a sort of stage on which, doubtless, some looked-for actor was about to appear.

Nearly all these chairs were already occupied.  The lovely faces of the women were illuminated by the dazzling light.  Everybody turned toward Marianne as she entered the room, under the guidance of Sabine, who led her quickly toward one of the unoccupied seats, close to the improvised stage on which, evidently, Monsieur de Rosas was going to speak.

Madame Gerson had taken her seat near Marianne, who searched her black, bright eyes with a penetrating glance in order to interrogate the thoughts of this friend of the family.  Madame Gerson was delighted.  Sabine, dear Sabine, had achieved a success, yes, a success!  Monsieur Vaudrey was there!  And Madame Vaudrey, too!  And Monsieur Collard—­of Nantes—­the President of the Council!  And Monsieur Pichereau, who, after all, had been a minister!

“That makes almost three ministers, one of whom is President of the Council!  Sabine is overcome with joy, yes, absolutely crazy!  Think of it:  Madame Hertzfield, Sabine’s rival, never had more than two ministers at a time in her salon.”

She added, prattling in soft, linnet-like tones, that Madame Hertzfield’s salon was losing its prestige.  Only sub-prefects were created there.  But Sabine’s salon was the antechamber to the prefectures!