"I have an idea about that, but I concluded to say nothing to Rochaiguë on the subject until after I had spoken to you."
"Well, well, let us hear the idea!" said M. de Mornand, rubbing his hands, jubilantly.
"In the first place, you must understand that you are not handsome, that you are much too fat, that you have entirely too large an abdomen, and anything but a distinguished air. Pardon my sincerity, it is a friend who speaks."
"That is all right!" responded Mornand, trying hard to conceal the annoyance which his friend's plain speaking caused. "Between friends one can say and hear anything."
"That is an excellent maxim. I will therefore add that you are neither attractive, clever, nor good-tempered, but fortunately you have, or seem to have, a very considerable amount of political tact. You have made a careful study of the best means of corrupting consciences; you were born a corrupter as one is born a singer. Moreover, you are endowed with an eloquence of the continuous flow sort, capable of extinguishing and bewildering the best orators—on the other side. In a drawing-room you are heavy, clumsy, and awkward, like all big men; but in the tribune, with the railing concealing your abdomen, and your chest swelling out majestically under your embroidered coat, you are quite imposing, and can even be said to have some pretensions to good looks."
"Of what earthly use is all this?" retorted Mornand, impatiently; "you know very well that we politicians, we men of mark, care nothing in the world about being considered handsome."
"Oh, that is all nonsense! Don't interrupt me. I was about to say that so much depends upon a first impression that it is by all means advisable that you should appear before Mlle. de Beaumesnil in your most attractive guise, so you may fascinate and magnetise her, so to speak. Do you understand?"
"That is an excellent idea, but how is it to be managed?"
"You are to make a speech three days hence in the Chamber, are you not?"
"Yes, upon the cod fisheries,—a speech full of dry statistics."