“It’s a great advantage to Frasne certainly. I can’t explain Roquevillard’s motives, but just the same he’s too experienced to leave such a weapon in his adversary’s hands without having taken precaution on his own part. The receipt which he must have demanded surely provides that if he discharges the obligation of a third party, it’s irrelevant whether that third party is his son or not.” “As a matter of fact, the receipt does make this reservation, and in the most formal terms,” announced another lawyer, Mr. Paillet, coming up at this moment and entering into the discussion without loss of time. “I supposed as much,” said Mr. Latache triumphantly. “And rather than affix his signature to a paper containing such a restriction, Mr. Frasne would have been better advised to leave it to the decision of the court.” But Mr. Coulanges was not ready to surrender yet. “What does such a receipt prove?” he objected. “Would you give up one hundred thousand francs for some one you didn’t know?” The lookers-on agreed that he was right, and testified to their opinion by a flattering murmur of approval, as much as to say that indeed such a piece of generosity must have come from some imperious necessity. Nevertheless, his success was short-lived. Mr. Paillet swept it away for him like a conjurer making a nutmeg disappear before their eyes. He was a gay, round, fat man, who knew everything, poking in everywhere and telling everything he knew. “I see,” he said, “that you don’t, any of you, know of Mr. Frasne’s finest stroke.” “Tell us about it.” “Well, well.” He held his company by the importance of the news he brought. But the orchestra tuned up for an everlasting set of landers, and he abandoned his scandalised hearers in a craven manner, rolling off like a ball to the feet of the lady whom he had asked to be his partner. From the recess of the window the gentlemen who remained behind, for lack of anything better, watched the evolutions of the various couples, assuming a detached and judicial air as the dancers of both sexes advanced and retreated, saluted or turned according to the rhythm of the music and the various figures. Among the dancers was Jeanne Sassenay, her cheeks like roses, her hair rebelling against its neat and careful dressing. Quite graceful and childlike in a pale blue dress cut slightly low in the neck and showing a bit of white flesh caressed by the crystal lights, she was putting her whole mind on keeping the figures straight. Her whole being glowed with her pleasure and the importance of the evening. She excited a variety of comments from the lookers-on: “Not bad looking, that little girl,” said one. “Very thin: look at her shoulder blades,” said another. “Only eighteen,” remarked a third. “Oh, she’ll marry soon.” “Why?” “She has a large dot.” “Yes, but her brother has piled up debts.” “Whom will she marry?” “No one knows yet. They talk of Raymond Bercy.” “Who was engaged to Miss Roquevillard?”