And when at last he lowered his gaze in the
direction of the journalist he seemed still further to emphasize the
majesty of his attitude. For some seconds the two men looked at one
another. It was Fauchery who first stretched out his hand. Muffat gave
him his. Their hands remained clasped, and the Countess Sabine with
downcast eyes stood smiling before them, while the waltz continually
beat out its mocking, vagabond rhythm.
"But the thing's going on wheels!" said Steiner.
"Are their hands glued together?" asked Foucarmont, surprised at this
prolonged clasp. A memory he could not forget brought a faint glow to
Fanchery's pale cheeks, and in his mind's eye he saw the property room
bathed in greenish twilight and filled with dusty bric-a-brac. And
Muffat was there, eggcup in hand, making a clever use of his suspicions.
At this moment Muffat was no longer suspicious, and the last vestige of
his dignity was crumbling in ruin. Fauchery's fears were assuaged, and
when he saw the frank gaiety of the countess he was seized with a desire
to laugh. The thing struck him as comic.
"Aha, here she is at last!" cried La Faloise, who did not abandon a jest
when he thought it a good one. "D'you see Nana coming in over there?"
"Hold your tongue, do, you idiot!" muttered Philippe.
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