“Most decidedly. Doesn't Paris belong to the women, and don't the women belong to us?”
The baron laid his hands on Mouret's shoulders, looking at him with a paternal air. “Listen, you're a fine fellow, and I am really fond of you. There's no resisting you. We'll go into the matter seriously, and I hope to make them listen to reason. Up to the present, we are perfectly satisfied with you. Your dividends astonish the Bourse. You must be right; it will be better to put more money into your business, than to risk this competition with the Grand Hôtel, which is hazardous.”
Mouret's excitement subsided at once; he thanked the baron, but without any of his usual enthusiasm; and the latter saw him turn his eyes towards the door of the next room, again seized with the secret anxiety which he was concealing. However, De Vallagnosc had come up, understanding that they had finished talking business. He stood close to them, listening to the baron, who was murmuring with the gallant air of an old man who had seen life:
“I say, I fancy they're taking their revenge.”
“Who?” asked Mouret, embarrassed.
“Why, the women. They're getting tired of belonging to you; you now belong to them, my dear fellow; it's only just!” He joked him, well aware of the young man's notorious love affairs: the mansion bought for the actress, the enormous sums squandered with girls picked up in private supper rooms, amused him as an excuse for the follies he had formerly committed himself. His old experience rejoiced.
“Really, I don't understand,” repeated Mouret.
“Oh! you understand well enough. They always get the last word. In fact, I said to myself: It isn't possible, he's boasting he can't be so strong as that! And there you are! Bleed the women, work them as you would a coal mine, and what for? In order that they may work you afterwards, and force you to refund at last! Take care, for they'll draw more blood and money from you than you have ever sucked from them.”
He laughed louder still; and De Vallagnosc was also grinning, without, however, saying a word.
“Dear me! one must have a taste of everything,” confessed Mouret, at last, pretending to laugh as well. “Money is so stupid, if it isn't spent.”