Cydalise was next to the Brazilian, and beyond her was Bixiou.
Malaga sat by the Duke.
Oysters appeared at seven o'clock; at eight they were drinking iced
punch. Every one is familiar with the bill of fare of such a banquet.
By nine o'clock they were talking as people talk after forty-two
bottles of various wines, drunk by fourteen persons. Dessert was on
the table, the odious dessert of the month of April. Of all the party,
the only one affected by the heady atmosphere was Cydalise, who was
humming a tune. None of the party, with the exception of the poor
country girl, had lost their reason; the drinkers and the women were
the experienced _elite_ of the society that sups. Their wits were
bright, their eyes glistened, but with no loss of intelligence, though
the talk drifted into satire, anecdote, and gossip. Conversation,
hitherto confined to the inevitable circle of racing, horses,
hammerings on the Bourse, the different occupations of the _lions_
themselves, and the scandals of the town, showed a tendency to break
up into intimate _tete-a-tete_, the dialogues of two hearts.
And at this stage, at a signal from Carabine to Leon de Lora, Bixiou,
la Palferine, and du Tillet, love came under discussion.
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