flew about; arms were outstretched, and for some seconds a general
exchange of fisticuffs was imminent. Notwithstanding this, however, a
little sickly looking light-haired man kept insistently repeating:

"Come, come, Nana, you saw us the other evening at Peters' in the great
red saloon! Pray remember, you invited us."

The other evening at Peters'? She did not remember it all. To begin
with, what evening?

And when the little light-haired man had mentioned the day, which was
Wednesday, she distinctly remembered having supped at Peters' on the
Wednesday, but she had given no invitation to anyone; she was almost
sure of that.

"However, suppose you HAVE invited them, my good girl," murmured
Labordette, who was beginning to have his doubts. "Perhaps you were a
little elevated."

Then Nana fell a-laughing. It was quite possible; she really didn't
know. So then, since these gentlemen were on the spot, they had her
leave to come in. Everything was quietly arranged; several of the
newcomers found friends in the drawing room, and the scene ended in
handshakings. The little sickly looking light-haired man bore one of the
greatest names in France. Furthermore, the eleven announced that others
were to follow them, and, in fact, the door opened every few moments,
and men in white gloves and official garb presented themselves. They
were still coming from the ball at the Ministry. Fauchery jestingly
inquired whether the minister was not coming, too, but Nana answered in
a huff that the minister went to the houses of people she didn't care a
pin for. What she did not say was that she was possessed with a hope of
seeing Count Muffat enter her room among all that stream of people. He
might quite have reconsidered his decision, and so while talking to Rose
she kept a sharp eye on the door.

Five o'clock struck. The dancing had ceased, and the cardplayers alone
persisted in their game. Labordette had vacated his seat, and the women
had returned into the drawing room. The air there was heavy with the
somnolence which accompanies a long vigil, and the lamps cast a wavering
light while their burned-out wicks glowed red within their globes.
The ladies had reached that vaguely melancholy hour when they felt it
necessary to tell each other their histories. Blanche de Sivry spoke of
her grandfather, the general, while Clarisse invented a romantic story
about a duke seducing her at her uncle's house, whither he used to come
for the boar