In a sort of vulgar, meaningless, familiar slang, they recalled their innumerable triumphs; for all three of them, according to their own stories, had been applauded, laden with laurel-wreaths, and carried in triumph by whole cities.

While they talked they ate as actors usually eat, sitting with their faces turned three-fourths toward the audience, with the unnatural haste of stage guests at a pasteboard supper, alternating words and mouthfuls, seeking to produce an effect by their manner of putting down a glass or moving a chair, and expressing interest, amazement, joy, terror, surprise, with the aid of a skilfully handled knife and fork.  Madame Delobelle listened to them with a smiling face.

One can not be an actor’s wife for thirty years without becoming somewhat accustomed to these peculiar mannerisms.

But one little corner of the table was separated from the rest of the party as by a cloud which intercepted the absurd remarks, the hoarse laughter, the boasting.  Frantz and Desiree talked together in undertones, hearing naught of what was said around them.  Things that happened in their childhood, anecdotes of the neighborhood, a whole ill-defined past which derived its only value from the mutual memories evoked, from the spark that glowed in the eyes of both-those were the themes of their pleasant chat.

Suddenly the cloud was torn aside, and Delobelle’s terrible voice interrupted the dialogue.

“Have you not seen your brother?” he asked, in order to avoid the appearance of neglecting him too much.  “And you have not seen his wife, either?  Ah! you will find her a Madame.  Such toilettes, my dear fellow, and such chic!  I assure you.  They have a genuine chateau at Asnieres.  The Chebes are there also.  Ah! my old friend, they have all left us behind.  They are rich, they look down on old friends.  Never a word, never a call.  For my part, you understand, I snap my fingers at them, but it really wounds these ladies.”

“Oh, papa!” said Desiree hastily, “you know very well that we are too fond of Sidonie to be offended with her.”

The actor smote the table a violent blow with his fist.

“Why, then, you do wrong.  You ought to be offended with people who seek always to wound and humiliate you.”

He still had upon his mind the refusal to furnish funds for his theatrical project, and he made no secret of his wrath.

“If you knew,” he said to Frantz, “if you knew how money is being squandered over yonder!  It is a great pity.  And nothing substantial, nothing sensible.  I who speak to you, asked your brother for a paltry sum to assure my future and himself a handsome profit.  He flatly refused.  Parbleu!  Madame requires too much.  She rides, goes to the races in her carriage, and drives her husband at the same rate as her little phaeton on the quay at Asnieres.  Between you and me, I don’t think that our good friend Risler is very happy.  That woman makes him believe black is white.”