She had no lovers: the thing was only too apparent. One had only to look at her there by the side of that daughter of hers, sitting so insignificant and constrained on her footstool. That sepulchral drawing room of hers, which exhaled odors suggestive of being in a church, spoke as plainly as words could of the iron hand, the austere mode of existence, that weighed her down. There was nothing suggestive of her own personality in that ancient abode, black with the damps of years. It was Muffat who made himself felt there, who dominated his surroundings with his devotional training, his penances and his fasts. But the sight of the little old gentleman with the black teeth and subtle smile whom he suddenly discovered in his armchair behind the group of ladies afforded him a yet more decisive argument. He knew the personage. It was Theophile Venot, a retired lawyer who had made a specialty of church cases. He had left off practice with a handsome fortune and was now leading a sufficiently mysterious existence, for he was received everywhere, treated with great deference and even somewhat feared, as though he had been the representative of a mighty force, an occult power, which was felt to be at his back. Nevertheless, his behavior was very humble. He was churchwarden at the Madeleine Church and had simply accepted the post of deputy mayor at the town house of the Ninth Arrondissement in order, as he said, to have something to do in his leisure time. Deuce take it, the countess was well guarded; there was nothing to be done in that quarter. “You’re right, it’s enough to make one kick the bucket here,” said Fauchery to his cousin when he had made good his escape from the circle of ladies. “We’ll hook it!” But Steiner, deserted at last by the Count Muffat and the deputy, came up in a fury. Drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, and he grumbled huskily: “Gad! Let ’em tell me nothing, if nothing they want to tell me. I shall find people who will talk.” Then he pushed the journalist into a corner and, altering his tone, said in accents of victory: “It’s tomorrow, eh? I’m of the party, my bully!” “Indeed!” muttered Fauchery with some astonishment. “You didn’t know about it. Oh, I had lots of bother to find her at home. Besides, Mignon never would leave me alone.” “But they’re to be there, are the Mignons.” “Yes, she told me so. In fact, she did receive my visit, and she invited me. Midnight punctually, after the play.” The banker was beaming. He winked and added with a peculiar emphasis on the words: “You’ve worked it, eh?” “Eh, what?” said Fauchery, pretending not to understand him. “She wanted to thank me for my article, so she came and called on me.” “Yes, yes. You fellows are fortunate. You get rewarded. By the by, who pays the piper tomorrow?”