“And you—would it be an impertinence to ask if you ever condescend to the restriction of anything more limited than that very graceful dressing-room?”
“Oh, certainly!” exclaimed I; “only be good enough to say why you ask the question.” By this time the stranger's torch had burned down so close to his fingers as to cause an exclamation of pain as he threw it on the ground, and thus were we once more in the dark.
“Not from mere motives of idle curiosity, Monsieur,” said he, “did I ask, but simply, having come here to request the pleasure of your company at dinner to-day. I made the inquiry with a direct object. My name is Paul de Minérale.”
“Not the distinguished writer, the inimitable novelist, the delightful composer of the 'Curate's Niece,' 'The Path through the Vineyard,' 'The Rose of Auteuil'?”
“I am much flattered,” said he, cutting short my enumeration, “to discover so ardent an admirer of my poor productions; but, as time presses, will you be good enough to hasten your toilet, for my 'cottage' is near Belleville, and will take us nigh an hour to reach.”
I proceeded accordingly to array myself in cleaner costume, while my visitor kept up an agreeable conversation, chiefly bearing upon my line of life, the changeful passages of which, he seemed to think, ought to offer much amusement; nor could he conceal his astonishment on learning that he himself was my first and only client. “What an age we live in I” cried he; “where is that 'ancient faith' departed? Can men so openly disparage the gods?”
“Though my theology has been changed,” said I, “that's all. The Bourse and the Ballet are the modern deities, and he must be a rare sceptic who refuses to believe in them.”
“You are a philosopher, I perceive,” said he.
“Only before dinner,” replied I. “I am speculative with the soup, and grave with my 'petit pâté;' reserved with the first entrée; blandly communicative after the pièce de résistance; playful over the asparagus or the peas; soothing with the rôti; and so descend into a soft and gentle sadness as the dessert appears. I leave digestion to take its course, waiting for my mocha and maraschino. In the drawing-room I blaze forth in all the vividness of agreeability.”
“What could have induced one so evidently intended for a foreground figure to prefer the humble and shadowy part of a 'quatorzième '?” said he, in surprise.