“Who is this gentleman?” asked Monsieur Favart, approaching Mr. Love, who, seeing himself in for it, suddenly jerked off the epicier, thrust his hands down into his breeches’ pockets, buried his chin in his cravat, elevated his eyebrows, screwed in his eyes, and puffed out his cheeks, so that the astonished Monsieur Goupille really thought himself bewitched, and literally did not recognise the face of the match-maker.
“Who is this gentleman?” repeated the little officer, standing beside, or rather below, Mr. Love, and looking so diminutive by the contrast that you might have fancied that the Priest of Hymen had only to breathe to blow him away.
“Who should he be, monsieur?” cried, with great pertness, Madame Rosalie Caumartin, coming to the relief, with the generosity of her sex.—“This is Monsieur Lofe—Anglais celebre. What have you to say against him?”
“He has got five hundred francs of mine!” cried the epicier.
The policeman scanned Mr. Love, with great attention. “So you are in Paris again?—Hein!—vous jouez toujours votre role!
“Ma foi!” said Mr. Love, boldly; “I don’t understand what monsieur means; my character is well known—go and inquire it in London—ask the Secretary of Foreign Affairs what is said of me—inquire of my Ambassador—demand of my—”
“Votre passeport, monsieur?”
“It is at home. A gentleman does not carry his passport in his pocket when he goes to a ball!”
“I will call and see it—au revoir! Take my advice and leave Paris; I think I have seen you somewhere!”
“Yet I have never had the honour to marry monsieur!” said Mr. Love, with a polite bow.