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EPILOGUEIn the early days of March of this year, 1907, several of the guests who had taken part, some months' before, in the last hunting dinner that the châtelain of Grandchamp was destined ever to give, were assembled after luncheon in one of the small salons of the hôtel Charlus. There were Florimond de Charlus himself, and his daughter Marie, who had done the honors of the repast, in the absence of her mother, who was perennially ill, to the Sicards and Louis de Bressieux. With the coffee had appeared little de Travers, the too intimate friend of little Madame de Sicard, and the alter ego of her diminutive husband. You will remember the wretched pun on the size and names of the members of this family of three: "The Three Halves."
Elzéar de Travers, with his pink pug-nose, his poin
