Rochefort was one of those implacable men who never apologize, even if they are in the wrong. Camus had been his friend, or, at least, a very close acquaintance, and he had struck Camus in the face. If Camus did not choose to wipe out the insult it was no affair of Rochefort’s. He was ready to fight. He was not angry now with Camus; his attitude of mind was entirely one of contempt, and he passed on haughtily to the Hall of Presentations, where he soon found enough to distract his attention from personal matters. The Hall of Presentations—vast, lit by a thousand lights—gave to the eye a picture of magnificence and splendour sufficient to quell even the most daring imagination. The Escalier des Ambassadeurs had been thronged, the corridors and the Hall of Mirrors crowded; but here, so wide was the floor, so lofty the painted ceiling, that the idea “crowd” vanished, or at least became subordinated to the idea of magnificence. One would not dream of associating the word “solemnity” with the word “butterfly”; yet, could one see the congregation of a million butterflies, variegated and gorgeous, drawn from all quarters of the earth towards one great festival, the word “solemnity” on the lips of the gazer might not be out of place. So, to-night, at Versailles, all these butterflies of the social world of France—coloured, jewelled, beautiful—filling the vast Salon of Presentations with a moving picture, brilliant as a painting by Diaz, all these men and women, individually insignificant, produced by their setting and congregation that effect of solemnity which Versailles alone could produce from the frivolous. That was, in fact, the calculated effect of Versailles; to give the _fainéant_ the value of the strenuous, the trivial the virtue of the vital; to give great echoes to the sound of a name, to raise the usher on the shoulders of the Suisse, the grand master of the ceremonies on the shoulders of the usher, the noble on the shoulders of the grand master of the ceremonies, and the King on the shoulders of the noble. A towering structure, as absurd, when viewed philosophically, as a pyramid of satin-breeched monkeys, but beautiful, gorgeous, solemn under the alchemy of Versailles. The great clock of the Hall of Presentations pointed to ten minutes to ten. The King had not appeared yet, nor would he do so till the stroke of the hour. The presentation was fixed for ten. Rochefort knew everybody, and the man who knows everybody knows nobody. That was Rochefort’s position at the Court of Versailles; he belonged to no faction, and so had no especial enemies—or friends. He did not fear enemies, nor did he want friends. Outside the Court, in Paris, he had several trusty ones who would have let themselves be cut in pieces for him; they were sufficient for him, for it was a maxim of his life that out of all the people a man knows, he will be lucky if he numbers two who are disinterested. He did not invent this maxim. Experience had taught it to him.