“What! Can it be you who say such things? You, Julius? On whom I was counting so? The Comte de Baraglioul, whose writings....”
“Don’t talk to me of my writings, I beg. I’ve heard quite enough about them this morning from your Pope—false or true, whichever he may be. Thanks to my discovery, the next ones will be better—you may count upon that. I’m anxious to talk to you now about serious matters. You’ll lunch with me, won’t you?”
“With pleasure; but I must leave you early. I’m expected in Naples this evening ... yes, on some business, which I’ll tell you about. You’re not taking me to the Grand, I hope?”
“No; we’ll go to the Colonna.”
Julius, on his side, was not at all anxious to be seen at the Grand Hotel in company with such a lamentable object as Fleurissoire; and Fleurissoire, who felt pale and worn out, was already in a twitter at being seated full in the light at the restaurant table, directly opposite his brother-in-law and exposed to his scrutinising glance. If only that glance had sought his own, it would have been more tolerable; but no, he felt it already going straight to the border line of his magenta comforter, straight to that frightful spot where the suspicious pimple was budding, hopelessly divulged. And while the waiter was bringing the hors-d’œuvre:
“You ought to take sulphur baths,” said Baraglioul.
“It’s not what you think,” protested Fleurissoire.
“I’m glad to hear it,” answered Baraglioul, who, for that matter, hadn’t thought anything; “I just offered the suggestion in passing.” Then, throwing himself back in his chair, he went on in a professorial manner:
“Now this is how it is, my dear Amédée. I contend that ever since the days of La Rochefoucauld we have all followed in his footsteps like blundering idiots; I contend that self-advantage is not man’s guiding principle—that there are such things as disinterested actions....”
“I should hope so,” interrupted Fleurissoire, naïvely.