The dining-room which they now entered was very spacious, and the light was gaily bright after the subdued illumination of the drawing-room. The walls, covered with specimens of old earthenware, displayed a gay medley of colours, reminding one of cheap coloured prints. Two sideboards, one laden with glass and the other with silver plate, sparkled like jewellers’ show-cases. And in the centre of the room, under the big hanging lamp girt round with tapers, the table glistened like a _catafalque_ with the whiteness of its cloth, laid in perfect style, with decorated plates, cut-glass decanters white with water or ruddy with wine, and symmetrical side-dishes, all set out around the centre-piece, a silver basket full of purple roses. They sat down, Henriette between Claude and Mahoudeau, Sandoz with Mathilde and Christine beside him, Jory and Gagnière at either end; and the servant had barely finished serving the soup, when Madame Jory made a most unfortunate remark. Wishing to show herself amiable, and not having heard her husband’s apologies, she said to the master of the house: ‘Well, were you pleased with the article in this morning’s number? Edouard personally revised the proofs with the greatest care!’ On hearing this, Jory became very much confused and stammered: ‘No, no! you are mistaken! It was a very bad article indeed, and you know very well that it was “passed” the other evening while I was away.’ By the silent embarrassment which ensued she guessed her blunder. But she made matters still worse, for, giving her husband a sharp glance, she retorted in a very loud voice, so as to crush him, as it were, and disengage her own responsibility: ‘Another of your lies! I repeat what you told me. I won’t allow you to make me ridiculous, do you hear?’ This threw a chill over the beginning of the dinner. Henriette recommended the _kilkis_, but Christine alone found them very nice. When the grilled mullet appeared, Sandoz, who was amused by Jory’s embarrassment, gaily reminded him of a lunch they had had together at Marseilles in the old days. Ah! Marseilles, the only city where people know how to eat! Claude, who for a little while had been absorbed in thought, now seemed to awaken from a dream, and without any transition he asked: ‘Is it decided? Have they selected the artists for the new decorations of the Hôtel de Ville?’ ‘No,’ said Mahoudeau, ‘they are going to do so. I sha’n’t get anything, for I don’t know anybody. Fagerolles himself is very anxious. If he isn’t here to-night, it’s because matters are not going smoothly. Ah! he has had his bite at the cherry; all that painting for millions is cracking to bits!’