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Updated: April 30, 2025
After entrusting Guy with the secret of her yearning for solitude, she again indulged in her sickly smile, and still looking at Guy: "You are, I am told, a constant guest at Sabine Marsy's receptions?" she said abruptly. "Yes," replied Lissac. "But I have no great liking for political salons." "It is a political centre, and yet not, seemingly.
Madame Marsy's salons were brilliant under the blazing lights. Guests jostled each other in the lobbies. Overcoats and mantles were thrown in heaps or strung up in haste, the gloved hands reaching out as in the lobby of a theatre to receive the piece of numbered pasteboard.
Only very recently had Sabine Marsy's salon acquired the reputation of being an easy-going one, where one was sure of a welcome, a sort of rendezvous where every one could be found as in the corridor of a theatre on the night of a first appearance, or on the sidewalk of a boulevard; a salon well-filled, that could rank with the semi-official and very distinguished one presided over by Madame Evan, and those others quieter, more sober if a little Calvinistic of the select Alsatian colony.
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