“Everything is fresh here, even the fish; it is what the house is famous for,” said Carabine.
Baron Montes looked good-naturedly at the painter, and said:
“Very good! I drink to your very good health,” and bowing to Leon de Lora, he lifted his glass of port wine and drank it with much dignity.
“Are you then truly in love?” asked Malaga of her neighbor, thus interpreting his toast.
The Brazilian refilled his glass, bowed to Carabine, and drank again.
“To the lady’s health then!” said the courtesan, in such a droll tone that Lora, du Tillet, and Bixiou burst out laughing.
The Brazilian sat like a bronze statue. This impassibility provoked Carabine. She knew perfectly well that Montes was devoted to Madame Marneffe, but she had not expected this dogged fidelity, this obstinate silence of conviction.
A woman is as often gauged by the attitude of her lover as a man is judged from the tone of his mistress. The Baron was proud of his attachment to Valerie, and of hers to him; his smile had, to these experienced connoisseurs, a touch of irony; he was really grand to look upon; wine had not flushed him; and his eyes, with their peculiar lustre as of tarnished gold, kept the secrets of his soul. Even Carabine said to herself:
“What a woman she must be! How she has sealed up that heart!”
“He is a rock!” said Bixiou in an undertone, imagining that the whole thing was a practical joke, and never suspecting the importance to Carabine of reducing this fortress.