"Model for hair-pin, probably."
"The airs of that kicker!"
"He might have got a prettier mistress without trying hard."
"He'll find her a devil."
"Oh, there's no doubt about it. He has fitted up an elegant appartement for her in the Rue St. Jacques."
"Rue St. Jacques. Faugh!"
It should be unnecessary to say that these encomiums were not designed for the ears of Mlle. Fouchette, though the said ears must have burned with self-consciousness. But it may be well enough to remark that despite the spleen the object of it had risen immensely in the estimation of the female as well as the male habitués of Café Weber.
As the couple occupied a table in the extreme rear, the patrons in front found it convenient to go out by way of the Rue Champollion in order to see if not to bow to the distinguished guest.
The apparent fact that the new political leader had taken up with one of the most notorious women of the Quartier Latin in no way detracted from their esteem for him,—rather lent an agreeable piquancy to his character. On the other hand, it raised Mlle. Fouchette to a certain degree of respectability.
These demonstrations annoyed our young gentleman very much. Nothing but this patent fact saved them from a general reception.