Hidden behind his wife, M. Dulaurens was bowing with unnecessary frequency. He was dressed in grey from head to foot. Instinctively he had found the right protective coloring for himself. He lived in a state of timid admiration of the woman who, despite his lowly origin, on account of his great fortune, had married him, and who gave him to understand on every possible occasion the extent of her sacrifice. This marriage, the foundation alike of his self-respect and his political opinions, had endowed him with a deep respect for the nobility, of whom the type to him was his wife’s handsome person, stately and massive, commanding of feature, imperious and with a voice both authoritative and disagreeable. Alice stepped out last. She was wearing a pale blue dress, the delicate shade of which suited her very well. She came forward with a languid grace, which suggested that with her beauty frail health was combined. Marcel had eyes henceforward for no one but the girl. There was no pleasure expressed in his replies to the compliments heaped upon him, against which indeed his modesty and his soldierly sense of honor revolted. There was no doubt that this visit was paid to him, and that he was the aim and object of it. Although she treated Madame Guibert and Paule with politeness and even with kindness--with a haughty and condescending kindness which did not deceive the daughter, who was more acute, or better versed in the ways of the world, than her mother--still it was to Marcel that Madame Dulaurens, _née_ de Vélincourt, kept turning, as if she desired to capture for herself his new-born celebrity and bear him away in the carriage with her. Finally she spoke out quite frankly: “Well, young man, you have been home several days and you are never seen anywhere. One would think you were in hiding. That is not like you, as the enemy well knows.” “The enemy” was a conveniently vague name for the distant tribes whose complicated names she could not trouble to keep in her memory. M. Dulaurens, who had a sincere admiration for action and courage in other people, hastened to emphasize his wife’s allusion. “Yes, it was a hard campaign,” he said. “The Government’s lack of foresight.... You had few calm moments.” Paule with difficulty suppressed a hearty laugh as she heard the fatal adjective. So often was the word “calm” on M. Dulaurens’s lips that he had been nicknamed Sir Calm by those who tried to find a single phrase to express both his aristocratic pretensions and his love of peace. “All our friends wish to make your acquaintance,” his wife continued. “Please make my house your own, if you care to come.” And then, as though suddenly noticing Paule’s presence, she added, “With your sister, of course.” They would put up with the sister for the sake of entertaining the brother. The slight pause had shown how the case stood. It was Paule who replied: “Thank you very much, Madame Dulaurens, but we are still in mourning.”