persons with whom he had spoken. He named a number of people whom he called his friends, and whose names Mme. Favoral carefully stored away in her memory.
There was one especially, who seemed to inspire him with a profound respect, a boundless admiration, and of whom he never tired of talking. He was, said he, a man of his age,—M. de Thaller, the Baron de Thaller.
“This one,” he kept repeating, “is really mad: he is rich, he has ideas, he’ll go far. It would be a great piece of luck if I could get him to do something for me!”
Until at last one day:
“Your parents were very rich once?” he asked his wife.
“I have heard it said,” she answered.
“They spent a good deal of money, did they not? They had friends: they gave dinner-parties.”
“Yes, they received a good deal of company.”
“You remember that time?”
“Surely I do.”
“So that if I should take a fancy to receive some one here, some one of note, you would know how to do things properly?”
“I think so.”
He remained silent for a moment, like a man who thinks before taking an important decision, and then:
“I wish to invite a few persons to dinner,” he said. She could scarcely believe her ears. He had never received at his table any one but a fellow-clerk at the factory, named Desclavettes, who had just married the daughter of a dealer in bronzes, and succeeded to his business.
“Is it possible?” exclaimed Mme. Favoral.
“So it is. The question is now, how much would a first-class dinner cost, the best of every thing?”
“That depends upon the number of guests.”
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