It was not so grand or gorgeous of course as her father's princely palace opposite the Louvre, a wreck now, since it was annexed by the Committee of National Defence, for the housing of soldiery.

But the Derouledes' home was essentially a refined one.

The delicate china on the tall chimney-piece, the few bits of Buhl and Vernis Martin about the room, the vision through the open doorway of the supper-table spread with a fine white cloth, and sparkling with silver, all spoke of fastidious tastes, of habits of luxury and elegance, which the spirit of Equality and Anarchy had not succeeded in eradicating.
When Deroulede came back, he brought an atmosphere of breezy cheerfulness with him.
The street was quiet now, and when walking past the hospital--his own gift to the Nation--he had been loudly cheered.

One or two ironical voices had asked him what he had done with the aristo and her lace furbelows, but it remained at that and Mademoiselle Marny need have no fear.
He had brought Petronelle along with him: his careless, lavish hospitality would have suggested the housing of Juliette's entire domestic establishment, had she possessed one.
As it was, the worthy old soul's deluge of happy tears had melted his kindly heart.

He offered her and her young mistress shelter, until the small cloud should have rolled by.
After that he suggested a journey to England.