“But,” said the princess, pointing out to her the majestic Armenian, silent and grave, his tasselled hat on his knees, “I must take this poor bishop to the _Grand Saint-Christophe_, to buy some medals. He would never get on without me.” “No, no, I wish--you must--a few minutes more.” And the baroness threw a furtive look on the ancient and sumptuous clock in a corner of the room. Five o’clock already, and the great Afchin not arrived. The Levantines began to laugh behind their fans. Happily tea was just being served, also Spanish wines, and a crowd of delicious Turkish cakes which were only to be had in that house, whose receipts, brought away with her by the favourite, had been preserved in the harem, like some secrets of confectionery on our convents. That made a diversion. Hemerlingue, who on Saturdays came out of his office from time to time to make his bow to the ladies, was drinking a glass of Madeira near the little table while talking to Maurice Trott, once the dresser of Said-Pasha, when his wife approached him, gently and quietly. He knew what anger this impenetrable calm must cover, and asked her, in a low tone, timidly: “No one?” “No one. You see to what an insult you expose me.” She smiled, her eyes half closed, taking with the end of her nail a crumb of cake from his long black whiskers, but her little transparent nostrils trembled with a terrible eloquence. “Oh, she will come,” said the banker, his mouth full. “I am sure she will come.” The noise of dresses, of a train rustling in the next room made the baroness turn quickly. But, to the great joy of the “bundles,” looking on from their corners, it was not the lady they were expecting.