Renée nodded. After that, compliments came gushing forth from all the women: the jewels were ravishing, divine. With admiration tinged with envy, they discussed the Aurigny sale, where Saccard had bought these pieces for his wife. They complained that tarts like Laure d’Aurigny took all the most beautiful things, that soon there would be no diamonds left for respectable women. Their complaints betrayed a desire to feel against their naked skin jewels like these, which all Paris had seen on the shoulders of an illustrious debauchee—jewels that might whisper in their ears of the bedroom scandals to which these grandes dames were so eagerly attuned. They knew the high prices that had been paid. They mentioned a superb cashmere and some splendid lace. The aigrette had sold for 15,000 francs, the rivière for 50,000. These figures roused Mme d’Espanet to enthusiasm. She called out to Saccard. “Come over here so that we can congratulate you. Now, there’s a good husband!”

Aristide Saccard came over, bowed, and feigned modesty, but the expression on his face betrayed keen satisfaction. Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at the two contractors, the two masons who had struck it rich and who were standing just a few feet away, and saw that on hearing the figures 15,000 and 50,000 they reacted with obvious signs of respect.

At that moment, Maxime, who had just come in and who looked adorably stiff in his black frock coat, leaned familiarly on his father’s shoulder and spoke to him in a low voice, as to a friend, gesturing toward the bricklayers with a flick of his eyes. Saccard smiled discreetly, like an actor taking his bows.

Still more guests arrived. At least thirty people were now gathered in the salon. Conversation resumed. During the moments of silence, faint sounds of china and silver could be heard on the other side of the wall. At last Baptiste opened the double doors and majestically uttered the sacramental phrase, “Dinner is served, madame.”

Slowly the parade began. Saccard offered his arm to the little marquise. Renée took the arm of an elderly gentleman, a senator, Baron Gouraud, before whom everyone bowed and scraped. Maxime, for his part, was obliged to offer his arm to Louise de Mareuil, after which the remainder of the guests followed in procession, with the two contractors bringing up the rear, arms dangling.

The vast dining room was square in design, and the stained and varnished pear-wood wainscoting was as tall as a man and decorated with thin fillets of gold. The four large panels must have been intended to hold still lifes, but they remained empty, no doubt because the owner of the house had recoiled at the thought of spending so much for mere works of art. Swaths of bright green velvet filled the space instead. Upholstery, drapes, and door curtains of the same fabric gave the room a grave and sober character calculated to focus all the radiance of the lighting on the table.

At that moment, in fact, the table—set in the middle of a broad, dark-colored Persian rug that muffled the sound of footsteps, bathed in the garish light of the chandelier, and surrounded by chairs whose black backs bordered by ribbons of gold made a frame of somber outline—was like an altar, a candle-lit chapel in which pieces of crystal and silver glowed like bright flames against the white splendor of the table linen. Beyond the sculpted backs of the chairs, in the flickering shadows, one could barely make out the wainscoting, the large, low buffet, and the pads of velvet lying about here and there. Of necessity everyone’s eyes turned back to the table to feast on the dazzling scene. An admirable centerpiece of matte silver occupied the middle of the table, its chase work gleaming. This depicted a band of fauns making off with a number of nymphs. Above the centerpiece, spilling out of a large cornucopia, an enormous bouquet of wildflowers hung down in bunches. At either end of the table vases held additional sprays of flowers; and two candelabra, each matched to the centerpiece and figuring a satyr on the run carrying a swooning woman in one arm while supporting ten candles with the other, added their luster to the radiance of the central chandelier. Between these prominent items, warming ovens both large and small were arrayed symmetrically, keeping the first course warm, and these were flanked by shells containing hors d’oeuvres and interspersed with china bowls, crystal vases, flatware, and heaping fruit bowls holding the portion of the dessert that had already been brought to the table. Reinforcing the cordon of dishes stood an army of glasses, carafes of water and wine, and little salt cellars. All the crystal on the table was as thin and light as muslin, devoid of engraving, and so transparent that it cast no shadow. The centerpiece and other large items looked like fountains of fire. Lightning flashed from the burnished flanks of the warming ovens. The forks, spoons, and knives with their handles of pearl could have been mistaken for flaming ingots. Rainbows illuminated the glassware. And amid this shower of sparks, this incandescent mass, the decanters of wine added a ruby tinge to table linen as radiant as white-hot metal.

On entering the dining room, the male guests, smiling at the ladies on their arms, wore expressions of discreet beatitude. Flowers freshened the tepid air. Delicate aromas hovered in the room, mingled with the fragrance of roses. The sharp smell of crayfish and sour scent of lemon dominated all the rest.

After the guests located their names on the backs of the menus, one heard the sound of chairs being moved, accompanied by much rustling of silk dresses. Bare shoulders studded with diamonds and flanked by dark frock coats that accentuated their whiteness added their milky hue to the table’s radiance. As the first dishes were served, neighbors exchanged smiles in near silence broken only by the soft clink of spoons. Baptiste discharged his duties as butler with a grave diplomatic air. Under his command, in addition to the two footmen, were four assistants whom he recruited solely for important dinners. As he removed each dish for carving at a sideboard at one end of the room, three servants padded softly around the table, plates in hand, quietly naming each dish as they went. Others poured wine and kept an eye on the bread and carafes. Savories and appetizers slowly made their rounds, but the pearly laughter of the ladies had yet to take on a sharper edge.

The guests were too numerous to allow for easy general conversation. By the time the second course was served, however, and roasts and sweets had taken the place of savories and appetizers and great Burgundy wines—a Pommard and a Chambertin—had supplanted the Léoville and Château-Lafitte, ¹² the sound of voices had grown louder, and bursts of laughter made the fine crystal ring. Renée, seated at the middle of the table, had Baron Gouraud on her right and, on her left, M. Toutin-Laroche, formerly a candle manufacturer but now a city councilor, director of the Crédit Viticole, and member of the board of overseers of the Société Générale des Ports du Maroc, a slender yet substantial individual, whom Saccard, seated opposite between Mme d’Espanet and Mme Haffner, referred to in a flattering voice now as “my dear colleague” and now as “our illustrious administrator.” Then came the politicians: M. Hupel de la Noue, a prefect who spent eight months a year in Paris; three deputies, among whom M. Haffner displayed his broad Alsatian face; M. de Saffré, a charming young man who served as secretary to a minister; M. Michelin, the head of the bureau of roads; and other high-level bureaucrats. M. de Mareuil, a perpetual candidate for a seat as deputy, settled in opposite the prefect, at whom he made eyes. As for M. d’Espanet, he never joined his wife for social occasions. The ladies of the family were seated among the most prominent of these personages. Saccard had nevertheless reserved a special role for his sister Sidonie, whom he had placed farther down the table, between the two contractors, with the estimable Charrier on her right and the honorable Mignon on her left—a position of trust in which victory was essential. Mme Michelin, the wife of the bureau chief, a pretty brunette, amply endowed, was seated next to M. de Saffré, with whom she chatted eagerly in a low voice. Finally, at either end of the table sat the young people: auditors from the Conseil d’Etat,¹³ sons of powerful fathers, budding young millionaires, M. de Mussy, who darted desperate looks in Renée’s direction, and Maxime, with Louise de Mareuil on his right seemingly holding him in her thrall. The gales of laughter coming from their direction slowly gained in volume. Gaiety gradually spread from their corner to the rest of the table.