That year, as usual, M. Worms-Clavelin, the _préfet_, went shooting at Valcombe, at the house of M. Delion, an iron-master and a member of the General Council, who had the finest shooting in the district. The _préfet_ enjoyed himself very much at Valcombe; he was flattered at meeting there many people of good family, especially the Gromances and the Terremondres, and he took a deep joy in winging pheasants. Here he was to be seen pacing the woodland paths in exuberant spirits. He shot with twisted body, with raised shoulders and bent head, with one eye closed and brows knitted, in the style of the inhabitants of Bois-Colombes, the bookmakers and restaurant-keepers, his original shooting companions. He proclaimed noisily, with tactless delight, the birds that he had brought down; and by now and then attributing to himself those that had fallen to his neighbours’ guns, he aroused an indignation which he immediately allayed by the placidity of his temper and by entire ignorance of the fact that any one could possibly be vexed with him. In all his behaviour he united pleasantly enough the importance of an official with the familiarity of a cheerful guest. He flung their titles at men as though they were nicknames, and because, like all the department, he knew that M. de Gromance was an oft-betrayed husband, at every meeting he would give this man of ceremony several affectionate little taps without any apparent reason. Among the company at Valcombe he imagined himself to be popular, and he was not entirely wrong. When, despite his underbred manners and toadying air, his companions had got off scot-free of both shot and impertinences, he was considered dexterous, and they said that, at bottom, he had tact. This year he had succeeded better than ever in the capitalist circle. It was known that he was opposed to the income tax, which in private conversation he had felicitously described as inquisitorial. At Valcombe, therefore, he was the recipient of the congratulations of a grateful society, and Madame Delion smiled on him, softening for him her steel-blue eyes and her majestic forehead crowned with bandeaux of iron-grey. On leaving his room, where he had been dressing for dinner, he saw the lissom figure of Madame de Gromance gliding along the dark corridor, with a rustle of clothes and jewels. In the dusk her bare shoulders seemed barer than ever. He frisked forward to overtake her, seized her by the waist and kissed her on the neck. When she freed herself hurriedly, he said to her in reproachful accents: “Why so cruel to _me_, Countess?” Then she gave him a box on the ears which surprised him greatly. On the ground-floor landing he came upon Noémi, who, very seemly in her dress of black satin covered with black tulle, was slowly drawing her long gloves over her arms. He made a friendly little sign to her with his eye. He was a good husband, and regarded his wife with a good deal of esteem and some admiration.