It was a very modest house that was occupied by her who remained the first lady of Domfront despite her shattered fortunes. No show, no comfort, hardly room for the mother and son; but there was a _salon_, a sumptuous _salon_, a _salon_, to which everything had been sacrificed, a _salon_ that enabled Mme. de la Vaudraye to declare, with pride: “I have a _salon_.” And the townspeople nodded their heads in chorus: “Mme. de la Vaudraye has a _salon_.” In so saying, they had in mind not only the costly furniture heaped up in that one room, but also the shining lights of the town who adorned it with their presence. You were really nobody at Domfront if you did not form part of the _salon_ of Mme. de la Vaudraye. In its essence and as Gilberte saw it, the _salon_ consisted of an old-oak chest and an Empire sideboard, of the Bottentuit and Charmeron couples and their five young ladies, of M. and Mme. Lartiste and their son, of Mlle. du Bocage, of M. Beaufrelant, M. Hourteulx and Messrs. Simare, father and son, of a Louis XV clock, of a lacquered glass-case, and of a set of chairs and armchairs upholstered in crimson silk. A great silence, composed of eager curiosity, admiration and envy, greeted Gilberte’s entrance. The hostess at once made the introductions, or rather chiselled them out in elaborate phrases. Gilberte bowed. “And my son? Where is my dear Guillaume?” He was extracted from a small side-room. “Dear Mme. Armand, here is my Guillaume, who is so anxious to make your acquaintance.” Guillaume de la Vaudraye was not at all bad-looking, with a very good figure; but he had a sullen expression and his manners seemed constrained. He gave a bow and vanished. There was an attempt at general conversation, which fell very flat. People exchanged distressful looks and dared not raise their voices. Gilberte did not utter a word. Then, to break the ice, a rush was made for the principal person present, the last resource of drawing-rooms. He always lords it in the place of honour, displaying the expansive smile of his large yellow teeth. He looks like a squatting Hindu idol; he is well-groomed, shiny and pretentious. He is the centre of social life, the ever-ready rescuer, the life and soul of the company, the master of ceremonies, the master of the revels, the vanisher of intolerable silence. And none can contest his supremacy, for he alone is capable of making so much noise without becoming exhausted and of making more noise by himself than all the rest put together. The specimen in Mme. de la Vaudraye’s drawing-room was signed, “PLEYEL.”