"The fact is," said M. de Fierval, "that when this fellow, Brévannes, takes any thing in his head——"
"Why, it stays there!" said M. de Brévannes, laughing: "I deserve to be a Breton. And since, charming mask, you know me so well, you must know my motto, 'vouloir c'est pouvoir' (to will is to be able to do).
"And as you are afraid, that in her turn, your wife may also prove to you that vouloir c'est pouvoir, why you are as jealous of her as a tiger."
"Jealous?—I? well, now you are praising me. I really do not deserve such an eulogium."
"It is no eulogium, for you are as unfaithful as you are jealous; or, if you like it better, as haughty as you are inconstant. Oh! it was a fine thing to make a love-match, and marry a daughter of the middle classes! Poor Bertha Raimond! I am sure she pays dearly enough for what the fools call her elevation!" said the domino, with much irony.
M. de Brévannes frowned almost imperceptibly; but the cloud passed quickly, and he added, gaily,—
"Charming mask, you are mistaken; my wife is the happiest of women, I am the happiest of men, and thus our ménage offers no hold for the fangs of slander. But do not talk any more of one who was but a fashion of the year that is past."
"You are too modest. You are always, at least, so says slander, the very pink of fashion. Would you rather that we should talk of your journey to Italy?"
M. de Brévannes repressed a fresh impulse of impatience. The domino seemed to know precisely all the vulnerable points of the man she was mystifying.
"Come, cruel mask," replied M. de Brévannes, "at least be generous, and immolate a few other victims. You seem to be very well informed, be so kind as tell me the news of the day. Who are the women most in vogue? do their adorers of last season still sigh at their feet? have they undergone with impunity the proofs of absence, summer, and travel?"