“Famous stuff!... It puts fire into your belly and no mistake.”

“Yes, it’s the right stuff – the best,” agreed Mother Toulouche. “It’s what Nibet prefers!” she added. Then she cried: “But Nibet now... isn’t he in on it?” Big Ernestine put a finger on her lips:

“Nibet’s in on it of course – as he always is – you know that, old Toulouche – but he’s content to show the way – you know he seldom does anything himself... besides, it seems he’s on duty at the Dépôt tonight!” Big Ernestine threw an old shawl over her head and went off yelling:

“I’m off, and in for it now!... Soon be back, Mother Toulouche!”

The magnificent mansion of Thomery, the sugar refiner, overlooked the park Monceau. It was approached by a very quiet little avenue, in which were a few big houses: it opened on to the boulevard Malesherbes, and was known as the avenue de Valois. All the dwellings there are sumptuous, richly inhabited, and if the avenue is peaceful and silent by day, it is no uncommon thing to see it of an evening crowded with carriages and luxurious motor-cars, come to fetch the owners away to dinners and entertainments.

On this particular evening the approaches to the avenue de Valois were full of animation. Motors and carriages succeeded one another in a long file, setting down the guests of Thomery under an immense marquee, covering the steps leading up to the vestibule.

All the smart world had been invited to the reception: all Paris swarmed into the brilliantly illuminated entrance-halls of the mansion.

Two mounted policemen sat as immovable as bronze statues on either side of the entrance, while a swarm of policemen made the carriages move on, and drove away from the aristocratic avenue de Valois the band of poverty-stricken and ragged creatures who crowded the pavement with the hope of securing a handsome tip by opening a carriage door, or picking up some fallen object.

It was no easy matter to keep order. One of the police sergeants accustomed to ceremonial functions remarked to one of his younger colleagues:

“I have seen balls and receptions enough! Well, my boy, this Thomery affair is as fine a set out as if it were at the President’s!”

Although it was one o’clock in the morning, both on the boulevard Malesherbes and at the entrance to the rue de Monceau there was movement and activity. If, as seemed likely, there was a crush in the great reception-rooms of the Thomery mansion, it was certain that outside the crowd had to form up in line to get near the counters, where the wine sellers were serving their customers without a moment’s intermission – serving them with drinks of every description. Thus there was a hubbub, there was noise and roistering clamour all around. Most of the chauffeurs, coachmen, and servants knew one another.