He found himself the only guest, for all the others paid their shares in the cost of the entertainment. The nominal hostess was Mademoiselle Liévenne: "a splendid person, with abundant black hair, black eyes like a Moorish woman or Arlésienne, dazzling skin, and opulent figure." There were also at the table Mademoiselle Atila Beauchêne, Mademoiselle Alice Ozy, Mademoiselle Virginie Capon, and other charming ladies, all styling themselves actresses, and spending a thousand francs a week out of a salary of twenty-five. In attendance on this bevy of beauty were some of the jolliest fellows in Paris. The oldest and most distinguished was Roger de Beauvoir, whose curly black hair, wonderful waistcoats, and pearl-grey pantaloons made him the delight of the fair sex, and the envy of his fellow-boulevardiers. De Beauvallon was also present, but he and Dujarier were not openly on bad terms, and nothing seemed likely to cloud the general gaiety.
The fun waxed fast and furious. Champagne corks popped in all directions, toasts were drunk to everybody and everything. Dujarier proposed "Monsieur de Beauvoir's waistcoat," followed by "Monsieur de Beauvoir's raven locks." The jovial Roger responded with the toast "Friend Dujarier's bald head," and evoked roars of laughter by drinking to the Memoirs of Count Montholon, with which _La Presse_ had promised to entertain its readers for the last five years. Dujarier laughed as loudly as the others; the champagne had risen to his head. He began to fondle the girls, and became a little too bold even for their taste. "Anaïs," he murmured in an audible whisper to Mademoiselle Liévenne, "je coucherai avec toi en six mois." The next moment he realised he had gone too far. Recollecting himself, he apologised, was forgiven, and the incident seemed to be forgotten by all.
The remains of the supper were removed, curtains drawn back, and one side of the room left free for dancing, while a card-table occupied the other. More people dropped in. De Beauvoir, finding the literary editor in such a good humour, thought the moment opportune to remind him of one of his romances which _La Presse_ had accepted but seemed in no hurry to publish. To worry an editor about such a matter at such a moment is to court a rebuff. Dujarier replied sharply that Dumas's novel would be running for some time, adding that it was likely to prove more profitable to the paper than De Beauvoir's serial would be. Roger, the best-humoured of men, was nettled at this reply, and said so. "Good! do you seek an affair with me?" retorted the editor. "No, I don't look for affairs, but I sometimes find them," answered the author.