All that gathering of insignificant, grave and pretentious young men, who, while they crowded, made their progress in the ranks of the sub-prefects, councillors of prefectures, picking up nominations under the feet of the influential guests as they would cigar stumps, disgusted him; men of twenty years, born, as it were, with white cravats, pretentious and pensive, creatures of office and not of work, haunting the Chambers and the antechambers, mere collectors of ideas, repeaters of serious commonplaces, salon democrats who would not offer their ungloved hand to a workman on the street; staff-majors ambitious of honors and not of devotion, whom he felt crowding around him, with smiles on their lips and applications in their pockets.  How he preferred the quiet pleasure of reading at the fireside, a chat with a friend, or listening to one of Beethoven’s sonatas, or a selection from Mendelssohn played by Adrienne, whose companionship made the unmarked flight of the hours pass more sweetly.

It was for that that he was created.  At least he thought so and believed it.  And now this salon that he had simply desired to traverse, at once seemed altogether delightful to him.  And all this was due to his meeting a divine creature in the midst of this crowd.  He was eager to find Marianne, to see her again.  She aroused his curiosity as some enigma might.

What, then, was this woman, was she virtuous or of questionable status?  Ah! she was a woman, or rather ten women in one, at the very least!  A woman from head to foot!  A woman to her finger tips, a refined, Parisian woman, perverse even in her virginity, and a virgin perhaps in her perversity.  A problem in fair flesh.

As Vaudrey hurriedly left the buffet, every one made way for him, and he crossed the salons, eagerly looking out for Marianne.  As he passed along, he saw Guy de Lissac sitting on a chair upholstered in garnet satin, his right hand resting on the gilded back and chatting with Adrienne who was fanning herself leisurely.  On noticing Sulpice, the young woman smiled at him even at a distance, the happy smile of a loving woman, and she embraced him with a pure glance, asking a question without uttering a word, knowing well that he habitually left in great haste.

“Do you wish to return?” was the meaning of her questioning glance.

He passed before her, replying with a smile, but without appearing to have understood her, and disappeared in another salon, while Lissac said to Adrienne: 

“What about the ministry, madame?”

“Oh! don’t speak to me of it!—­it frightens me.  In those rooms, it seems to me that I am not at home.  Do you know just what I feel?  I fancy myself travelling, never, however, leaving the house.  Ministers certainly should be bachelors.  Men have all the honor, but their wives endure all the weariness.”

“There must, however, be at the bottom of this weariness, some pleasure, since they so bitterly regret to take leave of it.”