s
knees. She let him do as he liked, although in the street she was offish
enough to other men, refusing their familiarities partly from decorum
and partly for contempt for their commonness. She now stood audaciously
in front of the chevalier, who, having fathomed in his day many other
mysteries in minds that were far more wily, took in the situation at a
single glance. He knew very well that no young girl would joke about
a real dishonor; but he took good care not to knock over the pretty
scaffolding of her lie as he touched it.

"We slander ourselves," he said with inimitable craft; "we are as
virtuous as that beautiful biblical girl whose name we bear; we can
always marry as we please, but we are thirsty for Paris, where charming
creatures--and we are no fool--get rich without trouble. We want to go
and see if the great capital of pleasures hasn't some young Chevalier de
Valois in store for us, with a carriage, diamonds, an opera-box, and so
forth. Russians, Austrians, Britons, have millions on which we have an
eye. Besides, we are patriotic; we want to help France in getting back
her money from the pockets of those gentry. Hey! hey! my dear little
devil's duck! it isn't a bad plan. The world you live in may cry out a
bit, but success justifies all things. The worst thing in this world,
my dear, is to be without money; that's our disease, yours and mine. Now
inasmuch as we have plenty of wit, we thought it would be a good thing
to parade our dear little honor, or dishonor, to catch an old boy;
but that old boy, my dear heart, knows the Alpha and Omega of female
tricks,--which means that you could easier put salt on a sparrow's tail
than to make me believe I have anything to do with your little affair.
Go to Paris, my dear; go at the cost of an old celibate, I won't prevent
it; in fact, I'll help you, for an old bachelor, Suzanne, is the natural
money-box of a young girl. But don't drag me into the matter. Listen, my
queen, you who know life pretty well; you would me great harm and give
me much pain,--harm, because you would prevent my marriage in a town
where people cling to morality; pain, because if you are in trouble
(which I deny, you sly puss!) I haven't a penny to get you out of it.
I'm as poor as a church mouse; you know that, my dear. Ah! if I marry
Mademoiselle Cormon, if I am once more rich, of course I would prefer
you to Cesarine. You've always seemed to me as fine as the gold they
gild on lead; you were