As they arrived, Monte Fato veiled himself in shadow, for a jeu d'esprit. Mme. Sacqueville-Danglars, whose beauty could still be cited despite her one hundred and eleven years, was at the piano, while de Brie sat at her feet on the steps of the dais upon which she was elevated, and leafed through an album. "I greet you," she told her husband, "and maybe you look for welcome. But truth to tell, your welcome is doubtful here; troubles follow you like obnoxious street gamins. The last guests you introduced to me, those dreadful Glamhothschilds, were three usurers in a highly unfashionable grey, and yourself the most unfashionable of the four!"
"The courtesy of your boudoir has lessened somewhat of late, madame," replied Sacqueville-Danglars stiffly. "My guest is the Count of Monte Fato, who possesses jewellery that is worth many a financier, even the mightiest." The Count materialised, extinguished his shadow, and bowed.
The baroness looked surprised and pleased. She rose and gave her husband a smile, which was not habitual on her part, and the Count a curtsey that was at once ceremonious and gracious. Lothien exchanged with the Count a gesture of half-acquaintance, and snapped his fingers at the baron with a jovial "Coq-à-woupe!"
